A TREASURY O 
FLOWERSTORIE 





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A TREASURY OF 
FLOWER STORIES 



BY 

INEZ N. McFEE 

Author of "Girl Heroines in Fiction," "Boys 
and Girls of Many Lands," etc. 



ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






Copyright, 1921, 
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 



OCT 1 1 1921 



©CU627305 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Line of Light and What It Brought . . i 

A Story of the Goldenrod 10 

The Gentians 15 

The Fairy Garland 20 

A Legend of the Narcissus 27 

The Bluebell 32 

The Water Lily • 37 

Hepatica 42 

Legends of the Forget-Me-Not 46 

The Cardinal Flower 53 

The Pot of Gold 58 

My Lady Clover 64 

The Proud Poppy and the Little Blue Corn- 
flower 70 

A Legend of the Iris ........ 78 

Lotus Blossoms 81 

The Anemone 86 

iii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Clytie, A Legend of the Sun-Flower ... 91 

The Christmas Rose 95 

Pixies and Tulips . 100 

Lady Columbine . 104 

The Hyacinth 108 

Daisies at Home and Abroad . . . ... 113 

PThe South Wind and the Dandelion . f . 117 



IV 



PREFACE 

Once upon a time a great poet, walking down 
along the margin of a bay, saw before him "ten 
thousand daffodils" tossing their heads in a 
sprightly dance, which fairly outdid the 
sparkling waves in glee. And so pleasant was 
their golden host that ever afterward as the poet 
treasured them in his memory his heart danced 
with the daffodils, and at length he wove them 
into a beautiful poem and gave to the world a 
picture which will last for aye. 

Just so have other flowers whispered to their 
friends and lovers the most wondrous stories and 
marvelous fables, until, to-day, it has been pos- 
sible for the author to gather this TREASURY OF 
Flowers. And surely no more interesting or 
delightful treasury could be found anywhere! 
Straight from the Fairyland of Fancy come the 
myths and fables, sandwiched in with all sorts 
of flower-lore, dependable information, and the 
doings of fairies, genii, and pixies. 

There is the story of the discontented golden- 



PREFACE 

rod and the tale of how the goldenrod and the 
aster came to be; we learn the legend of the 
narcissus, the iris, and of that dear little flower 
which the good Father created last, and whis- 
pered low, "Forget-me-not" ; there are stories of 
such friends as the gentians, the bluebell, the 
water lily, hepatica, anemone, hyacinth, flower- 
de-luce, and the furry little pussy willows. We 
meet the glorious cardinal flower, Lady Colum- 
bine, and sweet My Lady Clover. Then there 
are the tales of "The Proud Poppy and the Little 
Blue Cornflower," and the "South Wind and 
the Dandelion" ; we are told why the flowers only 
bloom half the year, and about the pixies and 
the tulips, and the wondrous hundred-petaled 
Christmas rose, which carried health and happi- 
ness to a little girl high up among the snow- 
capped peaks of Switzerland; and so on and on 
until the treasury becomes a mine of richness, and 
the young reader comes back from the Fairyland 
of Flowers only when the end of the volume is 
reached. 



VI 



A TREASURY OF 
FLOWER STORIES 

THE LINE OF LIGHT AND WHAT IT 
BROUGHT 

LONG, long ago, when the world was first 
new, two dear little sisters, Avilla and Arlie, 
dwelt on the long bright slope of a mountain, 
w r here the sun always shone warmly and the 
birds sang their happiest; but alas! Arlie could 
only feel and hear these blessings, she could not 
see, for she had been born blind. Poor child! 
Poor little sister! Avilla felt very bad about 
it, and she questioned every one she saw, striv- 
ing to find some way to help Arlie. It was so 
sad not to be able to see the many beauties which 
she herself so dearly loved! 

Finally, one day, a stranger told her of a wise 
old woman who lived in a cave many miles 
away. "She knows many secrets," he said, "and 
I've no doubt but that she may know of some 
way to make the blind see." 

1 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

"I shall go to her at once/' said Avilla hope- 
fully, and though the way was long, the happy 
thoughts in her heart made the time pass quick- 
ly, and she scarcely gave any heed to the weary 
miles or the burning heat of the sun, "Oh, joy," 
she kept saying, over and over, "if Arlie can 
only see!" 

By and by she came to the dark cave where 
the wise woman was said to live, but there were 
no signs of her, and Avilla paused a moment, 
hesitatingly. It was such a black, gloomy place! 
Suppose after all no one lived there! It looked 
desolate enough, a fit home for bats and owls 
and sleeping bears. Avilla stepped close and 
peered in. Nothing but silence and darkness 
met her gaze, and most little girls would have 
turned and got away as speedily as possible. 

But not so Avilla : "Oh, joy," murmured her 
kind little heart, once more repeating its sing- 
song, "If Arlie can only gee!" And into the 
black hole she went determined to do her best 
for her little blind sister. 

Not a hand's breadth could she see before 
her, and ere she had gone ten feet something 
cold and Happy struck her full in the face. But 
Avilla did not cry out. She knew it was only 
a poor blind bat, and the helpless, frightened 

2 



THE LINE OF LIGHT AND WHAT IT BROUGHT 

thing suggested her own object more deeply 
than ever: "Oh, joy," she said aloud, "if Arlie 
can only see!" 

"Eh?" said a voice, not unkindly, and a cur- 
tain lifted a little ways from the child, showing 
a bent old woman peering at her from her loom, 
close beside a little blazing bunch of faggots. 
"Eh, little one, what is that you say?" 

"Oh, joy," stammered Avilla again, too sur- 
prised and dazed to jolt easily from her oft- 
repeated lines, "if Arlie can only see?" 

"Aye, indeed! Why shouldn't she see?" the 
old dame queried briskly. 

"She can," returned Avilla, trustingly, "if 
you will only open her eyes. She is blind, you 
know; born blind. Please tell me how to cure 
her!" 

"Precious little good it would do, if I did!" 
cackled the old crone, shrilly now. "It would 
be no small task, and people don't usually trou- 
ble themselves for the blind." 

"If you please," begged Avilla, earnestly, "I 
should. I love my little sister dearly, and there 
is nothing I would not do to open her eyes. 
Nothing! 'Oh, joy, if Arlie can only see!" 

A moment the old woman stared at the child, 
as though weighing her carefully. Then she 

3 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

stooped, and picking up a very long thread, 
handed it to Avilla, saying: "Here, take this; 
drag it all around the world, and when you get 
back, come here to me, and I will show you how 
your blind sister may be cured." 

Gladly indeed Avilla set out. It was a long, 
long thread and she needed to exercise no little 
care to keep it trailing after her without catch- 
ing and breaking. But she managed it blithely 
and with never a frown, because of the little 
singing refrain in her heart: "Oh, joy, if Arlie 
can only see, what happy, happy times we shall 
have together!" 

By and by her way led her to a great bleak 
forest, and for a moment the child's courage 
faltered: "I can never go in there alone," she 
murmured; "it is sure to be full of all sorts of 
horrible creatures." 

"Look at the thread! Look at the thread!" 
whispered a cooling little zephyr, playing 
against her cheek. 

Avilla turned, and looking back lo! instead 
of the bit of dull gray flax, there trailed after 
her a long golden line of light that seemed to 
point far back. And more marvelous than all, 
wherever the line of gold flecked a blade of 
grass behold- straightway there bloomed a flower, 

4 



THE LINE OF LIGHT AND WHAT IT BROUGHT 

and no two blossoms seemed alike! "How 
beautiful!" cried Avilla, and she hurried on at 
once, pausing every now and then to glance 
back, and always and anon in the wake of the 
golden line blossomed a little flowery pathway, 
which gladdened her heart anew, and lent speed 
to her flight. 

Thus, though the forest was deep and long, 
Avilla did not mind. "What happiness these 
beautiful woodland blossoms will be to all who 
pass this way!" she cried, joyously. 

After a time she came safely out into the 
bright sunshine again, and here she presently 
found herself face to face with a new difficulty. 
Before her and on every side as far as eye could 
reach stretched a low, swampy marsh. But 
Avilla did not pause. "I must go on!" she told 
herself stoutly, and the thought of her little 
sister made her brave. So she stepped courage- 
ously off across the mire, with the long golden 
thread trailing after her. 

And, strange to relate, she did not sink in: 
instead the way seemed to dry before her, and 
in the wake of the gleaming thread rose clump 
after clump of beautiful golden flowers — marsh 
marigolds, people call them to-day. While 
Avilla, as she looked back, cried out delight- 

5 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

edly, "How lovely! This will help others to 
cross!" 

Nor did she find the way tedious, though the 
marsh was miles and miles in extent. "Oh, joy, 
if only Arlie can see!" welled from her heart, 
every once in a while, in a little carol of song. 
She felt sure now, sure of success! For was it 
not a magic line she was leading? There could 
be no doubt of the old dame's power. 

Presently, however, her mettle was tried to 
the very utmost. She reached a burning desert. 
No flowers could spring up here to gladden her 
heart; even the line of golden light must parch 
and shrivel unless she sped quickly. So with 
flying feet she hurried onward, following a lit- 
tle group of gay yellow butterflies, which 
seemed to spring from nowhere for her guid- 
ance; nor paused to look behind, until just as 
the sun disappeared behind a crimson cloud, 
and the end of the desert was reached, when lol 
what a sight met her gaze! In the path of light 
which marked her trail, tall palms had sprung 
up magically, and each grain of sand the golden 
thread had touched now sparkled as a diamond, 
an emerald, a ruby, or some other precious 
stone. It was beautiful indeed, like a scene from 
Fairyland, as in truth it was, and Avilla was 

6 



THE LINE OF LIGHT AND WHAT IT BROUGHT 

fain to rest there through the night. It seemed 
to her that she could hear the birds singing in 
the palms, long after the stars had come out 
on guard, and her dreams were happy indeed. 

The next morning she was up and off betimes, 
with the golden thread blossoming in wondrous 
hues behind her as she journeyed. After a time 
she reached a great mountain. "Oh, dear, how 
shall I ever go up over it?" queried the child, in 
dismay. Just then two strong eagles rose with 
outspread w T ings from their nest on a cliff-side 
nearby and soared majestically and slowly aloft. 
A moment Avilla's eyes followed them wonder- 
ingly. "They do it just by being brave and 
strong," she murmured, "so can I!" And so she 
followed after, climbing on and on, and always 
managing to keep the soaring eagles in sight. 
As she neared the top she looked back and saw 
that the sharp, broken rocky mountain side had 
changed into a beautiful mossy, flowery-starred 
pathway! And, again, Avilla rejoiced that she 
had made the way clear and bright for others! 
What mattered all her rugged climb with this 
thought to cheer and gladden her! 

Moreover, as she turned to go down the slope 
on the other side, what was her delight to find 
that is was the very mountain wherein the old 

7 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

wise woman lived deep in her hidden cave! 
Avilla's journey was all but done; she had made 
a golden trail of light and blossoms around the 
earth! Gleefully she ran downward, and burst 
in upon the old crone, crying happily: 

"Here I am! Here I am! I have done all 
you told me to do! Will Arlie see?" 

"At last! At last!" cried the old dame, jump- 
ing up from her flax to seize the golden thread, 
"Bless you, my child, I am free! I am free!" 

And then before Avilla's wondering eyes the 
exultant old woman changed on the instant into 
a beautiful princess, with long golden hair and 
tender blue eyes, her face radiant with joy, and 
this is the story she told Avilla : "I was a king's 
daughter, but I was so selfish and idle that I 
never thought of the happiness of others. The 
fairies obliged me to live in this cave, until I 
could find some one who would be generous and 
brave enough to take the long dangerous jour- 
ney around the world for the sake of others. I 
have waited and waited a long time. Now I 
can be happy again. Your line of light — love, 
and the beautiful bloom it has left in its path, — 
has freed me and you may be sure I will gladly 
help you. When you reach home you will find 
a happy little sister with wide open eyes." 

8 



THE LINE OF LIGHT AND WHAT IT BROUGHT 

And so it was. 

Next morning it would have been difficult 
to say which was the happier, Arlie or Avilla, 
as the two went hunting all down along the path 
for the many gay and wondrous blossoms which 
no one in all the world had before seen! 

There grew a little flower once, 

That blossomed in a day, 
And some said that it would ever bloom, 

And some said 't would fade away; 
And some said it was Happiness, 

And some said it was Spring ; 
And some said it was Grief and Tears, 

And many such a thing; 
But still the little flower bloomed, 

And still it lived and throve, 
And men do call it ''Summer Growth," 

But angels call it "Love!" 

— Tom Hood. 



A STORY OF THE GOLDEN-ROD 

A DISCONTENTED golden-rod bloomed in a 
sunny sheltered place one day in November. 
"Ah, me," she grumbled, "why am I here? 
My friends are all dead and gone, and I am 
so lonely and weary. Not a soul has passed 
this way for a whole week!" 

"'Tsheveet, 'tshevee," called a gay musical 
voice, and a bright little goldfinch soared down 
in his funny, waving fashion. "Well, my dear," 
he cried, "I am so glad to see you here. Your 
face is the only bit of brightness in this gloomy 
w r orld this morning. 'Tsheveet, 'tshevee, may 
be, may be. O, yes, I sing whether the sun 
shines or not, and try to be happy, but some- 
times it is up-hill work! In the spring and 
summer my bright golden coat is an inspiration 
when all else fails, but there is nothing to be got 
out of this dull affair which nature compels me 
to wear in the winter time. How T ever, I suppose 
she knows best, — and say, what a jolly, sunny 
place this is! Seeds, seeds, everywhere! I 
must bring my wife and children. Hush ! Look 

10 



A STORY OF THE GOLDEN-ROD 

your prettiest! Here comes a charming lady 
and a sweet little girl. I dare say you will get 
the release for which you have been longing. 
Good-by!" And the goldfinch floated away in 
his best waving, dipping fashion. 

"Oh, mamma," cried the little girl, "see! 
there is a dear little goldfinch! How odd he 
looks in his dull winter coat. I should never 
have known him, but for his funny flight." 

Then she caught sight of the smiling golden- 
rod. "Oh, mother, look! Here is some golden- 
rod! I am so glad! I believe this little bit 
bloomed late just to make our home-coming 
the brighter! Come here to me, you precious. 
I shall carry you to my room, for you would 
soon fade away and die here." So saying she 
plucked the lovely sprays and fastened them in 
her jacket. 

"Come, mother, let us rest for awhile on this 
sunny rock. Don't you know some pretty tale 
about the golden-rod? This is as bright and 
shining as a fairy's wand!" 

"Fairy's wands are mostly silver," smiled the 
mother, seating herself obligingly. "There is, 
however, a species of the flower called the silver- 
rod that might well serve the fairies. It is the 
only white or silverish member of the family. 

11 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

All the others, and there are some eighty species 
or more, are yellow. There is a legend con- 
cerning the golden-rod that is most interesting. 

"It seems that once upon a time a certain 
cross old woman dwelt alone upon the mountain 
top. For her, the sky was never blue, the bright 
sun shone only to scorch her garden, and she 
turned a deaf ear to the beautiful songs of the 
birds. Having lived so much alone, without 
interest in her beautiful surroundings, she grew 
to think of nothing but herself and her own 
sorrowful, lonely lot, and thus became the more 
gloomy and morose. For you know one can 
never be glad and happy whose interests are en- 
tirely centered upon self. 

"By and by strange stories came to be circu- 
lated concerning her. It was said that she was 
a marvelous witch who could transform crea- 
tures and things to suit her will. Two dear saint- 
ly little twin sisters, whom we will call Golden- 
hair and Astoria, heard of this magic power and 
determined to go up and ask her to transform 
them into something that would be a benefit to 
the whole country around, and especially to 
the children of the poor. Accordingly they 
stole secretly away, and climbed bravely to the 
old witch's hut. 

12 



A STORY OF THE GOLDEN-ROD 

"Now it chanced that some saw them go, but 
before they could reach them to call a warning, 
the children had disappeared in the old wo- 
man's tumbled, dreary home. What transpired 
there no one ever knew, for no one ever saw 
the children again. But on the following day, 
the hillside path which they had trod was all 
abloom with beautiful wild flowers which 
swayed and tossed gayly in the wind and made 
every heart glad that saw them. People thought 
them to be happy emblems of the children, and 
named them golden-rod and aster. Gradually 
these flowers spread about over the land until 
there was scarcely a country road or neglected 
field where they were not to be found. They 
always bloomed side by side, as became loving 
twin sisters, and the people deemed it a con- 
vincing proof of the tale. Someway, too, a fairy 
or somebody let out the fact that the children 
had sought the witch to be transformed into a 
a blessing to the poor, and it was felt that in this 
guise they most certainly accomplish their mis- 
sion. For every one, no matter how needy or 
low, can have asters and golden-rod. They are 
truly God's gift to the wayfarer. 

"They seem to have no real value other than 
to adorn the dusty roadsides and dry places 

13 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

where little else is inclined to grow. And their 
tufted downy seed, much like that of the thistle, 
is scattered far and wide. The farmers consider 
them rather disagreeable weeds, and certainly 
they are hard to kill, but no one can deny but 
what they make the roadside and pastures more 
beautiful. They are great favorites with the 
thistle bird — the goldfinch, as you call him — 
for they furnish him with many a meal through- 
out the winter, w T hen shorter stemmed seed 
plants are hidden beneath the snow. 

"The golden-rod belongs to that great plant 
family called the composites, which contains 
about one plant in every six in North America. 
It is an own cousin to the aster, dandelion, 
thistle, sunflower, chrysanthemum, marigold, 
dahlia, and the zinnia. See if you can find out 
the distinguishing traits which mark the 
family." 



14 



THE GENTIANS 

"Oh ! gentian I have found you out, 
And you must tell me true: 
See, I'll put my ear close down, 
Where did you get your blue!" 

"I found it, little one, here and there, 
It was ready made for me; 
Some in your eyes, and some in the skies 
And some in the dark blue sea." 

"And where did you get that love fringe, 

Gentian, that you wear?" 
"I caught a hint from your dark eyelash 

And one from your curling hair." 

"And why do you stand so straight and tall 
When they say that you are wild?" 

"Oh ! that I learned in a different way 
And not from any child." 

— Anon. 

NOT every one knows the gentians, because 
alas! their beauty has been their own downfall 
— few hands can refrain from picking these 
lovely bits of color wherever found, and as next 
year's crop depends on the seed that is sown 
many spots that once bloomed in tints rivaling 
the bluest blue sky now stand bare and forlorn. 

IS 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

There are two species of gentians known in 
our country — the fringed gentian and the closed, 
blind or bottle gentian. The former is the great 
favorite of poets and artists, who love to portray 
it as a type of human steadfastness and courage. 
It bears beautifully fringed lobes, a single green- 
sheathed flower on a naked stalk. The closed 
gentian flowers in clusters. "Fifteen species of 
gentian," we are told, "have been gathered dur- 
ing a half -hour walk in Switzerland, where the 
pastures are spread with sheets of blue. In- 
deed, one can little realize the beauty of these 
heavenly flowers who has not seen them among 
the Alps." 

The closed gentian never opens. The fringed 
gentian closes before dark. And there is a rea- 
son: Once upon a time, 'tis said, the Queen of 
the Fairies was out very late. Indeed, it was 
midnight and the silvery moon had disappeared. 
The fairy hurried to a gentian and asked for 
shelter. The sleepy gentian said, u How dare 
you disturb me at this late hour? Find shelter 
wherever you can." "I am the Queen of the 
Fairies," said the poor frightened little one. 
"I do not care for queens or kings," said the 
gentian. "I cannot help you." The fairy queen 
hurried away to another gentian, a beautiful 

16 



THE GENTIANS 

specimen, standing erect on a tall stalk, and 
begged for a resting place. "Dear little friend," 
said this peerless one, "I shall be happy to shel- 
ter you until the sun appears." So the queen 
slept soundly until nearly dawn and then dis- 
appeared. Before going, she said, "Gracious, 
kindly gentian, in future you and all your chil- 
dren shall have power to open and receive the 
light. But as for your inhospitable sister, closed 
she shall remain forever and a day!* ' 

Low, moist meadows and woodlands of the 
mountainous sections are the favorite dwelling- 
places of the gentians, and they are late comers, 
— in October they are still in their glory in 
Ontario, farther south they may be seen much 
later, 

"Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

"Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall." 

— Bryant. 

The gentians depend on the bumblebees to 
scatter their pollen, and right willingly the big 
fellows accept the task, for the nectar of these 
flowers of their own favorite color is the last 

17 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

feast of the season that is spread for them. Time 
was when the botanists claimed that the closed 
gentian fertilized itself: for, said they, "How 
could a bumblebee enter this inhospitable 
tightly-closed flower?" But he does do it. And, 
indeed, now it is a pretty well established fact 
that the closed-gentian keeps its petals locked 
for the especial benefit of its big booming favor- 
ites! The reason is plain: It has no fringes 
or hairs to entangle the feet of crawling pilfer- 
ers, and no better way of keeping its pollen 
secure from the dew and rain, and from ma- 
rauding butterflies, who are not willing to go 
in over head and ears into the deep gentian 
pantries for nectar, and so are of no use in help- 
ing to set seed. 

Watch the bumblebee at work. He comes 
booming along, with his keen eye carefully on 
the watch for signs. He alights on a cluster of 
"bottles." Some of the older ones are of deep 
reddish purple: these say plainly enough, "Nec- 
tar removed." No use wasting time there ! The 
big powerful fellow looks about sharply : "Aha !" 
he says, "here are some bright-blue bottles, with 
the daintiest of white labels, I'll try 'em!" 
Forthwith he thrusts his tongue through the 
valve of the nearest one, at the point where the 

18 



THE GENTIANS 

five-plaited lobes overlap one another. It isn't 
a particularly easy job : for the bottle is securely 
sealed. But, at length, it yields perforce, and 
in goes the bumblebee's head and a good bit 
of his body! He is careful, however, to leave 
his hind legs outside; for he has no notion of 
entombing himself in the bottle. And present- 
ly, having drained the nectar, he backs out, 
carefully brushes the pollen from his head and 
throat, and is off to try another bottle. But 
brush as he may, some of the yellow dust clings 
to his velvety person, and there is plenty to 
powder the next flower he seeks. 

By and by, thanks to his kind offices, the 
flowers are all fertilized, the petals fall, and the 
little hairy seed scales are formed and ready 
to ride away in the autumn gales. Fortunate 
indeed are those that strike into soft, moist soil 
at the end of the journey, and so imbed them- 
selves ready to germinate and grow in the spring. 

Some species of the gentian are down in the 
pharmacists' catalog as "ague weed." They 
give out a colorless, bitter juice which has long 
been recognized as a tonic in medicine. Evi- 
dently the nectar pantries, however, must con- 
tain something considerably more appetizing, 
or the bumblebee would never go to the trouble 

to break into them! 

19 



THE FAIRY GARLAND 

Devonshire County, in England, 'tis said, 
was once the Kingdom of the Fairies. Here 
ruled King Oberon and his wife Titania, and 
here on moonlight nights the "little folks" held 
high revels. Belated travelers, crossing the 
lonely moors late at night, were often captured 
by the pixies and dragged away to their gay 
carousals. While gardeners, called out in the 
night to protect their charges against sudden 
changes of temperature, often came upon the 
most marvelous doings right on their own lawns. 
On one such occasion, so the story goes, a ban- 
quet was in full sway, and the table was nothing 
less than 

"A little mushrome, that was now grown thinner 
By being one time shaven for the dinner." 

While rose-leaves did duty for the cloth; lit- 
tle silver spangles served as trenchers; a peri- 
winkle and a cockle-shell shared honors as the 
ewer and basin; and the glasses 

"Were all of ice not made to overlast 
One supper, and betwixt two cowslips cast." 

20 



THE FAIRY GARLAND 

A little fairy, clad in a suit of rush, with a 
monkshood flower for a hat, and a cloak of 
spiders' loom, brought in the bottles — and mar- 
vel of marvels — every bottle was a cherry-stone! 

"And most of them were fill'd with early dewe; 
Some choicer ones, as for the king most meet, 
Held mel-dew, and the honey-suckles sweet." 

The hare-bells and the trumpet-flowers fur- 
nished dainty music throughout the feast, and 
with such wondrous victuals was the table 
spread! Milk-white kernels of the hazelnut 
was the bread; while all the first dishes were 

"In white broth boylde, a crammed grasshopper; 
The udder of a mouse; two Dometts' leggs; 
Insteed of olyves, cleanly pickl'd sloes; 
Then of a batt were serv'd the petty-toes ; 
Three fleas in souse ; a criquet from the bryne; 
And of a dormouse, last, a lusty chyne." 

After partaking bounteously, the guests re- 
paired to the toadstools round about, and danced 
and danced till the moonlight waned, and a 
threatening shower warned them to make haste 
away. 

Often and often were the fairies surprised 
taking refuge under toadstools, and on more 
than one occasion truthful gardeners stoutly af- 
firmed that they had seen fairy-serfs, marching 

21 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

along, holding a toad-stool umbrella over their 
queen as she tripped hurriedly home in the rain! 

Always the hare-bell was used to summon the 
fairies. A traveler, crossing the moors, one 
night, had proof of this, and it was really on 
his evidence that these little bell-shaped flowers 
were so named. It seems that the gentleman 
was jogging slowly along, tired and weary, 
when there came suddenly to his ears the tinkle 
of a little musical bell, so unlike any that he had 
ever heard before that he felt on the instant it 
must belong to the fairies, and he paused, wait- 
ing. Nearer and nearer the sound came, but it 
did not grow much louder. Presently, a hare 
dashed by, running like mad, and around his 
neck was a little tinkling blue bell-flower. 

"Whither away, hare?" called the man, quick- 
ly. "Pray tell me!" 

"There is no time," returned the hare, over 
his shoulder. "Do not seek to detain me. I'm 
off to summon the fairies to a special meeting 
called by the queen." 

Who knows perhaps it was that very night 
that the "little folks" met to settle where the 
various flowers should grow. For it may have 
been, perchance, the very eve of the creation of 

22 



THE FAIRY GARLAND 

many of our loveliest blossoms. But you may 
not have heard of this event: 

It seems that long ago, when only a few hum- 
ble flowers were strewn here and there on the 
earth, that Sandalaphon, the Angel of Prayer, 
stood in the gateway of the Celestial City re- 
ceiving the petitions that were wafted up to 
him. So many of these were from the poor and 
the lowly, people whose cares were so great that 
their backs bent under the heavy weight, and 
their voices trembled with the burden of their 
crosses so that the angel was moved to pity. 
Gathering the prayers like a sheaf in his out- 
stretched arms, he held them a moment thus, 
and then let them slip back to earth, changed 
by his touch into a great bunch of blooming 
plants of every color and shape, and of such 
pleasing brightness that all who beheld them 
must feel the gladder and happier for the 
vision. 

Straight into the eager arms of the fairy 
queen's own handmaidens fell the marvelous 
gift, and presently a great cry of delight went 
ringing throughout the realm: "Come one, 
come all, and help with the fairy garlands!" 

Such a busy night as it was! How the "little 
people" flew about here, there and yonder! Such 

23 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

division and subdivision of the tiny plantlets 
as there was, that every hill and vale might be 
planted! Such discussion as to which speci- 
mens might be expected to thrive best in moist 
places, in meadows, on wind-swept hillsides, in 
the woods, and where not! No doubt Sandala- 
phon himself directed the labor: for not a sin- 
gle mistake was made, and so magically did the 
plants grow and thrive that shortly afterwards 
the gardeners began to find fairy garlands left 
nightly here and there strewing their walks and 
paths; garlands containing many surprising, un- 
heard of blooms of great beauty, which the 
lucky finders were only too happy to transplant 
and tend with watchful care. 

Always with the garlands were left, tossed 
here and there, helter-skelter, the folks' gloves 
(foxgloves) which the "little people" wore for 
mittens. Proof positive that it was they who 
brought the garlands! Besides shortly it was 
found that no one dared to pick a bit of the 
delicate white bloom of the snapperjack, or 
stitchwort, which had sprung up to amble grace- 
fully all about over the hedgerows. 'Cause 
why : it was sacred to the pixies ! And any one 
This "pixie flower" was always the foundation 
so bold as to gather it was sure to be pixey-led! 

24 



THE FAIRY GARLAND 

for the fairy garlands ; sometimes indeed it made 
up the whole thing, showing plainly that it was 
the prime favorite of the ^little folks." 

Two other common plants, the fairy butter 
and the familiar little chickweed, often were en- 
twined in the garlands, and they were never ab- 
sent from the glens where the fairies dwelt. 
The fairy butter is especially a plant of the min- 
ing regions, and no better proof is needed that 
the fairies lived about the mines. Indeed, 'tis 
said that when the dangerous damp came up 
from the mines at night such knocking and 
hammering arose as might be heard all about, 
while the fairy buttter-plant rocked back and 
forth, and on the worst occasions, was even 
heard to groan, in sorrow, no doubt, for the 
little people who most certainly were perishing 
in the heavy damp. 

As for the little chickweed, it was the fairies' 
weather-glass, as it is the poor man's to-day. 
And a very accurate little barometer it is! Here 
is what Lord Bacon, one of England's cleverest 
thinkers, figured out and set down after close 
study of the habits of this intelligent little weed : 
"When the chickweed bloom spreads boldly and 
fully in the morning, no rain will happen for 
four hours or more. If it continue open, no rain 

25 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

will disturb the summer day. When it half hides 
its tiny flower, the day is generally showery; 
but if it entirely shuts up, or veils the white 
flower with its green mantle, let the traveler put 
on his great coat, and the ploughman expect 
rest from his labor." 

The red chickweed or pimpernel also served 
the fairies as it does the little English maid to- 
day. Says this little rosy-cheeked miss: 

"I'll go and look at the Pimpernell, 
And see if she thinks the clouds look well ! 

For if the sun shine, 

And 'tis like to be fine, 

I will go to the fair! 
So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds in the sky? 
If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I !" 

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up 
Her little gold star in her coral cup, 

And unto the maid 

A warning she said: 

"Though the sun smite down 

There's a gathering frown 
O'er the checkered blue of the clouded sky; 
So, tarry at home, for a storm is nigh." 

So punctual is the pimpernel in opening its 
petals between seven and eight in the morning, 
and closing promptly at two in the afternoon, 
that it is called the "shepherd's clock." It is of 
no use on cloudy days, however, for then it does 
not open at all. 

26 



A LEGEND OF THE NARCISSUS 

I WONDER if you know the beautiful narcissus. 
There are several members in the family, and 
grandmother groups them under the general 
name of daffodils and jonquils. They appear in 
a variety of dress, from the many shades of yel- 
low to white, and white, edged with pink or yel- 
low. Some of them are very fragrant. 

Grecian mythology tells us that once the Nar- 
cissus was a beautiful youth who fell in love 
with the reflection of his own face in the water, 
and would not leave it. For his foolishness and 
vanity the gods changed him into a flower. 

In the far-off land of China they tell a much 
more interesting tale. It seems that a certain 
rich man, on his deathbed, bequeathed to his 
elder son all his money and lands, excepting 
one poor, bare, stony acre, which he gave to his 
younger son. As soon as the funeral rites were 
over, the fortunate young man made haste to 
spread a great feast for his friends and make a 
gorgeous show. Pleased with their flattery, he 
gave one entertainment after another and squan- 

27 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

dered his money in all sorts of wild and useless 
ways. Soon his inheritance was gone and the 
foolish man realized, too late, that he had only 
given one more proof of the Chinese proverb: 
"He who earns not, soonest spends." 

But the younger son; what of him? Poor, 
and mocked on every hand by his brother and 
his riotous companions, he had left the place in 
despair, and became a wanderer in the land. 
On a certain day, tired and sick at heart, he lay 
down in a delightful, shady nook, beside a rip- 
pling, limpid, mountain stream and fell into a 
deep sleep. As he dreamed, a beautiful water 
nymph or naiad, clad in fleecy, snowy robes, 
appeared before him and murmured encourag- 
ingly: 

"Arise, my friend, take heart and hope. Look 
at the lovely flowers which bloom about you on 
every hand. Take of their bulbs and plant them 
upon your barren acre. Water them and tend 
them with watchful care and a great miracle 
shall be worked for you. Always he who is 
willing to work and watch and wait may reap a 
glorious harvest and receive a rich reward." 

Surprised, the young man awoke and glanced 
eagerly around. But the nymph had vanished. 
"'Twas but a dream," he murmured, bitterly, 

28 



A LEGEND OF THE NARCISSUS 

and got slowly to his feet, "good fortune is not 
for such as I." 

But even as he spoke, he was conscious of a 
lighter feeling in his heart. The world did not 
look so dark and dreary; the flowers seemed to 
nod at him with friendly, smiling faces, and his 
feet seemed reluctant to move on. By and by he 
decided to accept the advice of the dream and 
fell feverishly to work. All day long he gath- 
ered bulbs and plants with patient care, and 
then, as night closed in, he set out for his distant 
home, almost staggering beneath his load. 

Caring not for the sneers and doubts of his 
neighbors, who deemed him crazy, he planted 
his treasures, carefully screened them from the 
sun, and sought with copious waterings and ten- 
der care to make up for the lacking elements in 
his unfruitful soil. And nature abundantly re- 
warded his efforts. Presently the rocky, barren 
field was covered with tender shoots and blades 
of green. The young man redoubled his efforts 
and almost lived upon his love for these tender 
plants, which seemed to sympathize with him 
and understand his every whim and mood. The 
"wondrous miracle" which the nymph had 
promised was forgotten, and he ceased to look 
forward, as he had at first, for the flowers to 

29 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

prove keys to some hidden mine of wealth, after 
the fashion of key-flowers in fairy lore. Day 
by day these children of the fields grew into his 
heart, and he was almost wild with joy when the 
first blossoms burst. 

By New Year's Morning the once barren 
fields were a wondrous sight, and people came 
from far and near to view them. Such a wealth 
of blossoms, from the deepest shades of orange 
and yellow to purest white! How the people 
wondered and exclaimed and how delighted 
was the poor, despised, younger son! But he 
was most generous and freely gave a flower to 
all. 

"The rich, the poor, the young, the old, 
Drank nectar from the cups of gold, 
No matter what their dower." 

Time passed ; and ere many moons had come 
and gone, the younger son gained all that the 
elder had lost, and all from the care of "boot- 
less flowers." The "magic spell," spoken of by 
the nymph, had indeed been worked. The poor 
young man had grow r n rich and great through 
careful attention to a very small opportunity. 
Fortune ever smiled brightly upon him, as she 
always does upon those who faithfully work; 
for "work reaps its own reward." 

30 



A LEGEND OF THE NARCISSUS 

Centuries have gone by since he lived and 
loved his flowers, but the people have not for- 
gotten him. Always in every window, whether 
of humble home or palace fair, the Chinese sun 
on New Year's Day greets the bloom and frag- 
rance of the sweet narcissus. And the people 
love to tell their children the story of the flower, 
and to teach them to guard well what they have 
that more may be added unto their store. 

The "Chinese lily," the narcissus, is the poor 
man's emblem of thrift and care. Each citizen 
carries one on New Year's Day and sips from 
its bell-shaped cup the fragrant nectar of hope 
and cheer which the flower once carried to the 
poor, despised outcast who had not home nor 
where to lay his head. It whispers to all, like 
the narcissus of old, that work is the happy talis- 
man, the blessed key-flower which unlocks the 
door to wealth and happiness untold. He who 
would succeed must rise betimes and carry to 
his task such a loving interest that Fortune can- 
not help but be attracted thereby. 



31 



THE BLUEBELL 

No flower is more beautiful than the bluebell. 
It is one of the dearest, daintiest wild flowers 
imaginable. But, no doubt, you are as well 
acquainted with it as you are with the buttercup 
and dandelion. Perhaps you may have even 
heard the dainty bluebells ring! For they do 
ring, it is said, loud enough to attract the ears 
of myriads of flying insects and call them to feed 
upon the sweet nectar held in their bell-shaped 
cups. 

I wonder if you have ever hunted for the 
bluebell in its quiet woodland home, or, per- 
chance, gathered it from its own shady corner 
in grandmother's dear, old-fashioned garden? 
It is an own cousin to the heliotrope and the 
forget-me-not, but it is more showy than either 
of these charming favorites. A certain writer 
says: "There is something about the bluebells 
more beautiful in form of foliage and stem, and 
in the graceful way in which they rise to pan- 
icles of blue, than in almost any other family." 
And how cleverly they droop their heads in 

32 



THE BLUEBELL 

order to protect their nectar from the rain and 
the dew! This is necessary in order to keep 
them sweet and attractive for the bees, beetles, 
rose chafers, and other insects which uncon- 
sciously perform the great service of spreading 
the pollen (the yellow dust which you know so 
well in the center of all flowers) from one 
blossom to another, and thus enables them to 
be fertilized and the seed to be set, so as to keep 
up the supply of bluebells from one generation 
to another. 

In some communities the bluebell bears the 
name of Virginia cowslip. In others it is called 
the true or smooth lungwort. It used to be cul- 
tivated in old English gardens for ornament and 
for the benefit of the bees, who love to gather its 
nectar. Besides dwelling in the forest, it makes 
its home in rich, moist meadow lands, and will 
even entrench itself in the damp crevices of 
rocks where there is enough rich earth to give it 
a foothold. A meadow land deeply blued with 
lovely masses of bluebells in mid April is a 
wondrous sight. 

According to tradition, the bluebell did not 
always have its beautiful color. It was once 
pure white and bloomed, half -hidden, in a dim 
ravine, shaded by towering trees which shut out 

33 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

the sunlight and, indeed, nearly all the sky, ex- 
cepting one tiny stretch of blue. Day after day 
the lonely little flower eyed this bit of blue with 
hurgry longing. How beautiful it was! How 
clear and true it seemed when the little, fleecy 
white clouds tripped across it! And how brave 
it looked when it slipped from behind the angry 
rain clouds, which sometimes hid it from sight! 
Nothing ever seemed to dim its brightness or 
affect its purity, and the little flower longed with 
all its whole soul to be like it. Finally it began 
to pray to the bright star, which dotted the blue 
at night, entreating its aid. 

Then a miracle happened. Slowly and surely 
the pure white of the dainty flower began to be 
tinted with blue like the light of the skies upon 
a summer night. The bees and beetles hung 
over it in admiration ; they hurried to the other 
white flowers of its kind farther down the ra- 
vine. As they whispered of the change in their 
neighbor, they unconsciously left some of her 
pollen, which had clung to their feet and legs. 
And so new seeds were set in these flowers, and 
in their hearts came a desire that they, too, 
should be like the blue sky, which had so pleased 
their relative. 

Next spring when the new generation of 

34 



THE BLUEBELL 

plants in the ravine bloomed, they were all 
tinged with blue. The insects were delighted. 
It was so much easier to find these flowers with 
their gayer, more attractive colors, and they 
hung over them and forgot all about the white 
blossoms farther down the valley. So the neg- 
lected white ones died for want of friends and 
messengers to carry their pollen, and the blue 
ones lives and thrived. In the course of several 
generations, the flowers became the deep blue, 
slightly tinged with pink, which we now find 
them, and thus earned their title to the name, 
bluebell. 

The poet, who learned this story from the 
birds, finds in it a lesson for all. He says that 
those who strive with watchful eyes after all 
things pure and high, shall take their image by 
and by. For the thoughts of our hearts tinge 
our actions and stamp their reflection upon our 
faces. 

I wonder if you have ever seen the seeds of 
the bluebell? If you have not, just keep your 
eyes open for them. They are four little seed- 
like nuts. When fully ripe and matured, they 
have a queer, leathery, wrinkled appearance. 
If you know where there is a clump of bluebells, 
you must watch for their seed to ripen. Find 

35 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

out, if you can, the methods which the flower 
uses to have her seeds scattered. Contrast the 
seeds of the bluebell with the tufted, flying seed 
of the dandelion, which blows whither the wind 
listeth, and the funny-winged "keys" of the ma- 
ple tree. 

Botanists will tell you that the bluebell be- 
longs to the bell-flower, or Campanula, family, 
of which there are some 250 species. Most of 
the family are showy and ornamental, and a 
large number of the tribe favor Northern re- 
gions. Bluebells, it is said, are often found 
growing among snow and ice, safely protected 
by their downy suits. The hare-bell is the com- 
mon English name for the bluebell. 

The Scottish bluebell came to this country 
with our early emigrants, who could not do 
without their "bonny bluebells of Scotland." In 
their native land, the bluebells are as common 
as our own American golden-rod. They bloom 
everywhere, "far away from any house site, on 
sandy hilltops, on quarry edges, or set in jewel- 
like clusters in the emerald of the pastures." 



36 



THE WATER LILY 

No doubt you know the water lily, and have 
often seen it floating upon the water as brightly 
and gracefully as a spirit princess from fairy- 
land. It belongs to a very large family and is 
scattered all over the world. As might be ex- 
pected from its wide range, the leaves and flow- 
ers vary greatly in size, shape, and coloring. 
The famous Amazon water lily has gigantic, 
floating leaves, three feet or more in diameter, 
and magnificent flowers in proportion; while 
the dull flowers of the water shield are only 
about half an inch long. The white and yellow 
water lilies of our ponds and bayous are the most 
common. Occasionally we find a sweet-scented, 
pinkish or pinkish-red species growing in still 
water. 

The bloom of the sacred Egyptian lotus, a 
species of the water lily, varies from deep red 
to pinkish and pure white. In the tropical re- 
gions of Africa and India there is a blue water 
lily. It has been imported to our country, but 

37 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

here it is said to be very tender and grows only 
in aquariums. 

Botanists claim that the time is coming when 
the white water lily shall be no more; for the 
beetles and other insects which distribute the 
pollen care more for the brighter colored lilies. 
Of course, if this be true, and the insects should 
largely neglect the white lilies, then their seed 
will not be so well set, and they will become 
scarcer, but we hope that they will not become 
extinct for "another couple of thousand years 
or so," as Mr. Grant Allen says, for we cannot 
bear to lose this snowy-hued lily with its heart 
of living gold. 

The water lily opens early every morning 
and closes again in the afternoon. Why is this? 
To quote Mr. Allen, "Because that is just the 
very time when the insects that fertilize it, or 
carry pollen from head to head, are flitting about 
in the open sunshine. It is only in order to 
attract these insects at all that the flowers possess 
their bright colors and store their little stock 
of honey or nectar. No plant can show that 
truth more clearly, indeed, than these very water 
lilies. For if you look at the center of the blos- 
som, you will find it occupied by many rows 
of small, yellow pollen bags, hanging out at the 

38 ' 



THE WATER LILY 

end of long finger-like stalks, which we call 
stamens. But toward the edge of the blossom 
the stalks of the stamens seem to flatten out, 
gradually, more and more, and the pollen bags 
to grow less and less conspicuous, till at last 
they pass imperceptibly into the form of petals 
or flower leaves without any trace at all of the 
original pollen bags. This shows that the showy 
petals are in reality only stamens which have 
got flattened out by slow degrees in order to 
attract the fertilizing insects." 

These words bring out a thought which many 
of us have not considered, viz. : That the plants 
do not flaunt their many-hued blossoms for our 
pleasure, alone, but also as gay advertising cards 
to the bees, beetles, and insects to come and dis- 
tribute their pollen. What a new insight it 
gives us concerning the importance of these 
humble creatures, and how great are their op- 
portunities to brighten the world about them! 

But to return again to the water lilies. All 
lilies, no matter what their color, grow from a 
strong horizontal rootstock, much like a strand 
of long, thick rubber. And how do they grow? 
Just like this: — 

"They draw their strength for leaf and stem 
Out of the earth that cradled them ; 

39 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

Then catch in their tiny hands the rain 
To wash them clean of earthly stain, 

And lift their faces in air and sun 
That clothe in beauty every one. 

To heaven above from earth below 
That is the way the lilies grow!" 

The Indians have a beautiful legend concern- 
ing the white water lily or lily star, as they 
called it. It seems that long ago a certain star 
fell in love with the many beauties of the earth 
and longed to come down and dwell near the 
Red children, who seemed so happy in their 
games and sports. Each day she drew nearer 
and nearer until at last she hung just above the 
treetops. The people watched her anxiously; 
for they could not make out whether she was 
an omen of good or evil. At last the star spoke 
to them. 

"O good people," she called, "I love you, and 
I wish to dwell near you where I may gaze into 
your rippling lake-mirrors, scent your myriads 
of sweet-smelling flowers, and listen to your 
beautiful gay-plumaged birds, and the happy 
voices of your dear little children. Tell me 
where I shall make my home." 

The simple-hearted people were delighted, 
and suggested one after another the mountain 
top, the heart of the wild rose on the hillside, 

40 



THE WATER LILY 

and the cool depths of the forest, but none of 
these suited the star. They were too far off. 
She wished to dwell where she might see the 
children every day, where they might play 
around her, and where she might sometimes feel 
their dear, little hands touching her. At last a 
wise young chief bethought himself of the lake. 

"Why not try the lake?" he cried. "Here our 
people spend the greater part of every day. The 
sunlight loves to glimmer on its waters and the 
skies, clouds, and stars reflect themselves in its 
mirrors." 

u, Tis the very thing!" cried the star. "Bid 
the children watch for me." 

Accordingly the very next night the star 
floated downward on a wave of sweetest music 
and buried itself in the lake. For a long time 
the people watched, expecting a miracle. But 
nothing happened. The star was apparently 
gone forever, and they retired disappointedly to 
their wigwams. But the next morning lo! a 
beautiful lily with pure white petals and a rich 
golden heart stood where the star had gone 
down. 



41 



HEPATICA 

When April awakens the blossom folk, 

And blue-birds are on the wing, 
Hepatica, muffled in downy cloak, 

Hastens to greet the spring. 

Careless of cold when the north wind blows, 

Glad when the sun shines down, 
She opens her wrap, and smiling, shows 

Her dainty lavender gown. 

Her sisters are robed in pink, and some 

Are in royal purple dressed, 
And over the hills and fields they come 

To welcome the darling guest. 

The children laugh as they pick the flowers, 

And the happy robins sing; 
For, blooming in chill and leafless bowers, 

Hepatica means the spring. 

— Anna Pratt. 

We often find this brave little harbinger 
growing right in the snow on the sunny wood- 
land hillside. How it escapes being frozen is a 
miracle that is solved by its furry little hood, 
and the fur covering of its "scape," as the leaf- 
less flower stem is called. At first we see only 
the old brown leaves from last year, but soon 

42 



HEPATICA 

the fresh young leaves uncurl and open. And 
then the little flower buds bravely cast aside 
their furs and come out in their dainty dresses, 
which vary from white to pink, and through all 
the shades of lavender to deep blue and purple. 
Each flower is made up of from six to twelve 
sepals, or divisions, if you please, of the flower- 
cup or calyx, which look so much like petals 
that you will have to inspect them sharply to 
see the difference. These sepals are in truth lit- 
tle leaves which Mother Nature has colored and 
transformed to call attention to the hepatica 
nectar pantries. It will be w T ell for you to re- 
member their structure; for when you come to 
study botany you will often read of "petal-like 
calyxes" or "sepals colored like a corolla," and 
you will, then, know all about what is meant. 
Sometimes sweet-scented hepaticas are found. 
Some folks say that all the blooms are fragrant 
at a certain time. Burroughs, however, tells us 
that: "The gift seems as capricious as the gift 
of genius in families. You cannot tell which the 
fragrant ones are till you try them. Sometimes 
it is the large white ones, sometimes the large 
purple ones, sometimes the small pink ones." 
The odor is faint, like that of sweet violets, and 
however it be, lucky is the one who chances 

43 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

upon a sweet-scented clump. Should such for- 
tune come to you, mark the place, and see if the 
plant produces scented bloom next year, by so 
doing you may help to solve a much-mooted 
question. 

"The gem of the woods," Burroughs calls this 
little firstling, and we feel with him that it has 
never been admired half enough. "What an 
individuality it has! No two clusters alike; 
all shades and sizes. ... A solitary blue-pur- 
ple one, fully expanded, and rising over the 
brown leaves or the green moss, its cluster of 
minute anthers 1 showing like a group of pale 
stars on its little firmament/ is enough to arrest 
and hold the dullest eye." 

When the blossoms are gone, there are still 
left the lovely leathery lobed leaves, so much 
like the shape of the liver, that they give to the 
plant its common name — liverwort. The term 
hepatica also comes from the Greek word w r hich 
means "liver." And not only in its shape but in 
the color of its old leaves — a dull brickish-red — 
does the hepatica resemble the liver! It is one 
of the plants included in the old "Doctrine of 
Signatures," which governed the pharmacists of 

1 Anther = pollen knobs. 

2 Firmament or filament = threads on which anthers are hung. 

44 



HEPATICA 

old, who went by the rule that every herb had 
a sign to show its use to man, if only he were 
wise enough to read it! Thus the liver-shaped 
leaves of the liverwort pointed its purpose as a 
remedy for any and all liver complaints; the 
celandine, because it had yellow juice, was the 
cure-all for jaundice; the herb-dragon, because 
it was spotted and striped, was the remedy for 
snake-bites, and so on. 

There are two kinds of hepaticas or liverwort 
common in our country. In the east and north 
the plant bears three roundish-lobed leaves, each 
clump growing on its own foot-stalk, which 
springs from the root. The western species of 
liverwort has sharp-lobed leaves numbering 
from three to five in a cluster. Both species 
bear many pistils and stamens. But only the 
three-lobed kind is capable of setting its own 
seed. The sharp-lobed hepatica depends on the 
bees and flies to scatter its pollen, and it care- 
fully closes its bloom at night to protect the 
precious contents from the frost and the rain, 
while its flowers cling a long time, in order that 
the uncertain creatures on whom it is dependent 
may have every chance to call 



45 



LEGENDS OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

When to the flowers so beautiful, 

The Father gave a name, 
Back came a little blue-eyed one, 

All timidly it came. 
And standing at its Father's feet, 

And gazing into his face, 
It said in low and trembling tones, 

And with a modest grace, 
"Dear God, the name thou gavest me, 

Alas, I have forgot." 
The Father kindly looked him down, 

And said, "Forget-me-not." 

— Anon. 

The forget-me-not is a native of Europe and 
Asia, but it has been naturalized well over our 
own land, escaping from the gardens in both 
the old world and the new, to wander along 
brooksides, marshes and low meadows, while 
in Alaska it has settled so thickly on the hillsides 
as to give them a bluish tint from a distance. 
The grandest type of all the clan is a rich dark- 
blue beauty growing wild in the Azores. This 
specimen has been transplanted to England, but 
it needs the protection of the greenhouse. Scor- 

46 



LEGENDS OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

pion grass, or mouse's ear is the name given to 
the smallest member of the tribe, whose stems 
and leaves are covered with bristly hairs. The 
flowers of this forget-me-not form a lengthening 
stem, leaving their little empty green calices be- 
hind as they wither. 

According to Blanchan, "It was the golden 
ring around the forget-me-not's center that first 
led botanists to believe that the conspicuous 
markings at the entrance of many flowers served 
as pathfinders to insects. This golden circle 
also shelters the nectar from rain, and indicates 
to the fly or bee just where it must probe be- 
tween stigma and anthers to touch them with 
opposite sides of its tongue. Since it may probe 
from any point in the circle, it is quite likely 
that the side of the tongue that touched a pollen- 
laden anther in one flower will touch the stigma 
of the next one visited, and so cross-fertilize it." 
The forget-me-nots, however, are not entirely 
dependent upon insects to set their seed. When 
these fail, the perfect flowers are able to attend 
to this matter themselves. 

Botanists will tell you that the forget-me-not 
belongs to the Borage family, a small family not 
unknown to fame in the circle of chemists and 
druggists, at least, as they figure extensively in 

47 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

the preparation of perfume and dyestuffs, and 
have certain medicinal qualities. 

There are almost as many legends of the for- 
get-me-not as there are different types and 
names for the plant. But, notwithstanding that 
in all climes, this dainty blossom, of heaven's 
own true blue, is considered an emblem of 
friendship, many of the legends alas! in striving 
to account for the name forget-me-not have con- 
nected it with sorrow. One of the best known 
of these perhaps is that of the knight and his 
betrothed who were walking along the banks of 
the Danube, when the lady saw far below them 
a bunch of beautiful flowers. In delight, she 
exclaimed over them, wishing she had the beau- 
tiful blue blossoms to plant in her own garden. 
Of course, though the bank was steep and the 
descent perilous, the lover, as became a true 
knight, at once went down to get them. Some- 
how a treacherous sapling gave way, and he and 
the prized bunch of blue rolled into the river. 
Clad in heavy mail, as he was, the knight was 
powerless to swim, or to save himself, and when 
he found that he must perish, with great effort, 
he threw the flowers up to his beloved, calling 
at the same time "Forget-me-not." It is said 
that after the battle of Waterloo, a great quan- 

48 



LEGENDS OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

tity of forget-me-nots sprang up upon different 
parts of the battle field, as if to ask that the 
fallen heroes should not be forgotten. 

An old Danish myth typified one brilliant, 
seldom-found species of the forget-me-not as a 
wondrous key-flower, which unlocked a door 
in the mountain side for the lucky one who 
picked it. This door led away into a cave filled 
with beautiful sparkling gems — diamonds, ru- 
bies, amethysts, emeralds, sapphires, topazes, 
turquoises, all surpassingly lovely and glittering 
most temptingly in the rushlights held by a lit- 
tle old kobold in a red cap. 

"Take what you want," the little old fellow 
would cry pleasantly, when the guest exclaimed 
in wonder and delight over the treasures. "Take 
what you want, friend, but don't forget the 
best!" 

Straightway, of course, the shepherd, or per- 
chance some traveler in the land, who had never 
in all his life heard of the key-flower, would 
begin to select this stone and that, choosing al- 
ways the largest and most brilliant, until his 
pockets, his hat, his handkerchief, and even his 
shoes and other parts of his wearing apparel 
had been filled to the limit, and he was so loaded 
down with the valuables that he could scarcely 

49 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

stagger under their weight, when he was per- 
force obliged to turn away. And always he did 
this most unwillingly, for there was the old ko- 
bold at his elbow, urging him repeatedly: "Take 
all you want, friend; but don't forget the best!" 

Indeed, so anxious was the old fellow in his 
guest's making the best possible choice, that his 
cry, "Don't forget the best! Don't forget the 
best!" followed him up the passage, and the 
door closed on the words! 

And, then, the guest, to his dismay, found 
that he had in "truth failed to heed the oft-re- 
peated advice. He had forgotten the best! He 
had left behind him the wondrous blue key- 
flower, and without its magic his treasures were 
as nothing; for now they were only so many 
pebbles and bits of moss and dead leaves — relics 
of his own greed. 

"The sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers." 

So wrote Tennyson. It is a happy thought, 
which calls to mind a legend told by one of the 
old Persian poets: 

It seems that in the golden morning of the 
early world, an angel sat weeping outside the 
closed gates of Paradise. Alas! he had fallen 

50 



LEGENDS OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

from his high estate through loving a daughter 
of earth, and never more should he enter the 
Celestial City, unless perchance the maid he 
loved should become immortal! 

So great was his sorrow and despair at what 
he considered an utter impossibility that pres- 
ently the angel's sobs moved the Keeper of 
the Gate to pity: "What now knight of the err- 
ing!" he chided gently. "Why sit ye there? 
Arise and redeem thy sin!" 

A wise message truly. 

But where to begin the angel knew not. Sure- 
ly no act of his could lift his sweet queen of the 
flowers! And he turned to gaze, as he had so 
often, at the fair maid sitting afar beside a mea- 
dow stream, plaiting her golden hair with won- 
drous blue blossoms, and singing so sweetly to 
herself that even the ear of Israfel must have 
harkened. 

Then, as he watched enraptured, behold! a 
shaft of purest golden light sprang like an ar- 
row from the throne of Mithras and rested 
gently and lovingly upon the fair blossoms and 
the maid in their midst. And the angel's prob- 
lem was solved ! 

Swifter than a starry brand he went to earth, 
and shortly he and the maiden set forth together 

51 . 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

hand in hand, each bearing a great basket of 
beautiful plants which they had dug from the 
meadow. Hither and yon they went throughout 
the world, up hill and down dale, over pasture 
and field, pausing in all the sunny nooks and out 
of the way places, to set out little clumps of the 
wondrous blossoms. Then, their task ended, 
smilingly the two presented themselves before 
the Keeper of the Gate. 

And lo I they were admitted at once. The fair 
maid, without tasting the bitterness of death, 
had become immortal for her sweet service in 
growing the lovely blossoms of heaven's own 
blue — the forget-me-not — and in sharing them 
so generously with mankind everywhere. 

Who knows, perhaps it may have been the 
efforts of these two that set the forget-me-nots 
in the heavens? You know the poet Longfel- 
low tells us in Evangeline that: 

"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of 
heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of 
the angels." 



52 



THE CARDINAL FLOWER 

ONCE upon a time, so the Indian legends say, 
there was a moody young warrior whom we will 
call Cloud-in-the-face. This was not his real 
name, you understand, and cloud-in-the-face was 
not his character until the unlucky day when 
the Great Spirit claimed the soul of the beauti- 
ful Indian princess who was so soon to have 
been his bride. Then Sorrow changed the 
heart, the name, and the blood of the young 
warrior. 

How was he to live without his dusky peer- 
less maiden? Moreover, how could he go 
through the world seeing others of her type 
happy, laughing and gay, while she, who was 
a thousand times more joyous and beautiful 
than they, was now silent and still forever? 

Crazed and maddened he caught up his bow 
and quiver and rushed away into the forest. 
Here, after wandering about for hours and 
hours, he at length sank to sleep beside a stream. 
Presently a bevy of Indian maidens, from a town 
who knew not of the young warrior's sorrow, 

53 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

came down to the water's edge, and paused there 
making merry, all unmindful of his presence. 

How that sweet young laughter jangled on 
the overwrought nerves of the young chief! 
What quivers the happy voices sent through that 
agonized heart! With a long wailing whoop 
of despair, he rose savagely to his knees, and be- 
gan shooting his sharp arrows with deadly aim 
straight into the careless, light-hearted group! 

One after another the most beautiful and 
peerless ones of the lot fell, and their life-blood 
stained the earth all about. And there, in that 
very spot, not many moons afterward, rose a 
clump of cardinal flowers, one for each maiden 
slain, and none who saw them could doubt that 
the coursing red blood of those murdered In- 
dian princesses lived again in the rich hues of 
the gorgeous blossoms. 

The cardinal flower belongs to the lobelia 
family, being in truth the red lobelia. Strange- 
ly enough, too, all its kindred bear the bluest 
of blue blossoms! Now, why? Botanists tell 
us that it is simply an advertising measure. Blue 
has been proven over and over to be the favorite 
color of the bees, and the blue-typed short-tubed 
lobelias depend on the good offices of the bees 
to set their seed. The red lobelias have long 

54 



THE CARDINAL FLOWER 

tubes, and the bees are small good to them* 
They must bid for the favor of the ruby-throats, 
and any one who knows anything about the 
humming bird knows how red flowers call him. 
Haven't you seen him time and again poised 
sipping thirstily, yet daintily, over the trumpet 
flowers, the cannas, gladioli, and other long- 
tubed flowers of the garden? 

The lobelias received their name from no less 
a personage than Linnaeus himself — the great- 
est and most renowned of all botanists — who 
chose to christen these flowers in honor of his 
friend Matthias de l'Obel, herbalist and physi- 
cian, to James V, king of England. 

By the way, have you ever wondered why the 
scientific names of the flowers were such "jaw 
breakers" and why they are always in Latin? 
Answering the last query first, there are a great 
many different languages, you know, and as the 
scholars of all nations study Latin, it was thought 
best to put the classification not only of plants, 
but of animals and minerals, too, in a language 
common to all. Thus you see the names in these 
three kingdoms are alike all over the world, 
and it is much more convenient than it seems 
to us at first glance. 

As to the length of the names, we are indebted 

55 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

to Linnaeus for that, and it, also, is much more 
of a blessing than it seems. Up to the time of 
Linnaeus, botanists had named more or less 
plants and grouped them together, but a begin- 
ning had scarcely been made in classification. 
The learned men were, as you might say, 
"stumped!" They had a general name for vari- 
ous families, but they had not yet hit upon a 
descriptive name for the different species. For 
example, viola meant a plant of the violet fam- 
ily, but to tell the name of any particular indi- 
vidual required a lengthy description of it. 
"Why not give a second name to quality the 
first?" suggested Linnaeus, and he gave as an 
example, viola odorata, which means, of course, 
the sweet-scented or English violet. The scheme 
seemed most happy, and thereby was laid the 
foundation of the "jaw breakers." And really 
they are not so terrible after all, once you know 
'em! They remind one of the lions that so 
frightened the traveler because, at the distance, 
he could not see that they were merely iron lions. 
Certainly, if these names were not too hard 
for Linnaeus, they are not too hard for you and 
me. For, do you know, that not much more than 
two hundred years ago, the great botanist was 
just simply little Carl Linn, the bare-footed, 

56 



THE CARDINAL FLOWER 

out-at-the-elbows son of a poor Swedish clergy- 
man, who came near binding the youngster out 
to learn the shoemaker's trade, because he 
thought the lad really did not have brains 
enough ever to make a scholar! 

Thanks to the interference of a kind friend, 
the physician of the village, Carl went to this 
gentleman's office instead of to the shoe-shop, 
and here he got his first training in botany. 
When he was twenty-one years old, he became a 
student in the University of Upsala, in Stock- 
holm, trying to pay his way with the aid of an 
allowance of eight pounds a year (about $40) 
from his father. But he was not discouraged, 
and when his old shoes were badly worn, he 
folded paper and put into the soles to keep out 
the damp and cold. 

Finally he went to Holland, and there made 
friends with a rich banker who was a botanist, 
and who became interested in the young Swede. 
Carl Linn was sent to England to get rare plants 
for his new friend's garden. Now it was that the 
young botanist learned to write in Latin, and 
henceforth in all his work he signed himself as 
Carl Linnaeus. 



57 



THE POT OF GOLD 

Of course you have heard many times over 
of the pot of gold hidden at the end of the 
rainbow, but did you know that this self-same 
pot had been really and truly discovered? It 
all happened years and years ago, and must be 
a rather upsetting circumstances to those people 
who argue that the rainbow has no end. 

And this is how it happened : 

It seems that a very, very selfish man was once 
crossing a meadow all alone one bright moon- 
light night; suddenly, just how he never knew, 
his foot tripped over something which rolled 
chinking on a little way ahead of him, and be- 
hold! it was a pot of gold. The very pot of 
gold that belonged at the foot of the rainbow 
he felt sure : for had he not that very afternoon 
seen the rainbow arching right into this self- 
same meadow? 

Delighted with his find, the miser, for such 
he was, determined to hide the precious pot and 
its gleaming contents away where no one could 
ever steal it from him. So he slipped it into a 

58 



THE POT OF GOLD 

sack which he carried on his arm, and hurried 
away to the woods to secrete it in a specially 
good hiding place that he knew. 

But there was a hole in the sack, and the 
selfish old fellow did not know that as he went 
the gold pieces dropped out one by one into 
the meadow. How disappointed he was when 
he discovered his loss! And how quickly he 
hurried back to recover the treasure! 

He had no difficulty in seeing the pieces afar, 
but imagine his state when on stooping to pick 
up the bright golden coins, he found yellow 
flowers instead of money! How did it happen? 

Let the wise ones answer. We only know 
that yellow buttercups give joy to all who pick 
them, and that selfish people never find joy or 
happiness anywhere. 

THE BUTTERCUP DAIRYMAIDS 

The little ladies of the churn, 

They toil the springtime through, 

A-churning golden butter from 
The rain and sun and dew. 

But when the merry June-time comes, 

Their labor all is done, 
And they pack their tiny butter-bowls 

With butter like the sun. 

59 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

And then they stand in ranks and rows, 

Their bowls upon their heads, 
A-waiting the inspectors, who 

Shall soon go through the meads. 

And when the child-inspectors come, 

Such fun as then begins! 
For they test that golden butter 

With their rosy dimpled chins. 

— Anon. 

How many different kinds of buttercups do 
you know? 

We once read of an old gentleman who an- 
nounced with no little pride that he had four- 
teen different species of buttercups growing on 
his farm! Up until he was fifty years old, this 
man knew almost nothing about plants. Then 
he made up his mind he would really know 
what was growing on his own place. So he 
bought books and began to study plants, and in 
due time he was on speaking terms with a whole 
host of flowers, grasses, and weeds. But he had 
by no means exhausted his subject! "Oh," said 
he, "how many times I have wished that I had 
begun to study plants when I was a child, but 
I am getting more enjoyment from them now 
than I can say!" 

The buttercup is a native of Europe, but it 
has found its way all over the meadows, grassy 

60 



THE POT OF GOLD 

fields and roadsides of Canada and the States. 
Nothing is prettier than a gold-starred field of 
buttercups to the beauty-loving eye; and noth- 
ing rouses the ire of the farmer more than when 
the immigrant takes possession of his pastures. 
Cattle will not eat buttercups. Full well they 
know what the youngster who puts the stem or 
leaves into his mouth finds out to his sorrow. 
Beggars, it is said, often use the juice of the 
plant to raise sorry-looking blisters on their skin. 

The buttercup belongs to the Crowfoot fam- 
ily — Ranunculacece is its scientific name, and 
there is one species at least which certainly 
justifies the fore part of its Latin classification : 
rana — a frog; this is the yellow water butter- 
cup. Perhaps you may have seen it fully im- 
mersed in water, or stranded along shore in the 
mud. It has two sets of leaves, one for under- 
water existence, the other for land; so that, 
come what may, it is prepared. Often the stem 
of this species is several feet in length, and it 
makes itself doubly secure by rooting at the 
joints wherever it can. 

Another interesting plant, which only the 
botanist would connect with the moisture-lov- 
ing RanunculacecB which delights in marshes and 
low meadow lands, is the white water-crowfoot, 

61 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

with its fine thread-like leaves stretching here 
and yonder under water in the daintiest possi- 
ble patterns. "The flowers of this species," says 
Blanchan, "must, like the whale, come up to 
blow! . . . These are small, white, or only yel- 
low at the base, where each petal bears a spot 
or little pit that serves as a pathfinder to the 
flies. When the water rises unusually high, the 
blossoms never open, but remain submerged, 
and fertilize themselves." 

First to come in the spring is R. bulbosus: 
Let me see if we can't figure out just what flower 
is meant by this term, even though we haven't 
any particular knowledge of Latin. The first 
word, or initial as it is usually written, refers 
of course to the family name. And this we al- 
ready know is buttercup in plain United States. 
Bulbosus you would suspect to mean bulbous, 
wouldn't you? And now we have it: Ranuncu- 
lacecE bulbosus = bulbous buttercup. Simple 
enough, after all, isn't it? 

Besides, using our common sense a little fur- 
ther, we can easily enough determine why this 
species is the first buttercup to bloom. Natur- 
ally, having its nourishment thriftily stored up 
all winter in its underground bulb, it can push 
to the front much more rapidly than its fiber- 

62 



THE POT OF GOLD 

rooted kin who must first gather their materials 
from the soil and the air. This buttercup is a 
low and generally more hairy plant than the tall 
crowfoot, which is the common meadow butter- 
cup, but like it is thoroughly at home in most 
sections of our realm. Other names for the 
common meadow buttercup are kingcups, 
cuckoo flower, goldcups, butter-flower, blister- 
flower, 

"Cuckoo buds of yellow hue 
Do paint the meadows with delight." 

How well we all know this! Among them 
perchance may be others of their kin less com- 
mon. Here are a few species whose acquaint- 
ance you should try to make : the tufted butter- 
cup, the swamp or marsh buttercup, the bristly 
buttercup, the Hispid buttercup, the creeping 
buttercup, and the water plantain spearwort, 
which flecks the marshes throughout the season 
with its small golden flowers. 



63 



MY LADY CLOVER 

Though the brown bee's a rover, 

Seeking ever for sweetness new, 
To the little Lady Clover 

He in his heart of hearts is true. 
"Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet !" 

He hums it over and Qver. 
"Where in the wide world will you meet 
With the likes of my Lady Clover? 
Pink she is, white she is, 
A little thing of delight she is ! 
Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!" 
He hums as he sways above her, 
"Nowhere at all do I ever meet 

With the like of my Lady Clover." 

— Selected. 

AND, indeed, neither does man! Especially 
if he looks at the plant from the point of indus- 
try. Then, too, everybody knows that the clover 
is a mystic witch. Does not good luck always 
follow the finding of a four-leaf clover? And 
who doubts but that a five or seven-leaf speci- 
men is a fore-runner of bad news? European 
peasants say that to dream of the clover foretells 
not only a happy marriage, but long life and 
prosperity. "Living in clover" is a happy ex- 
pression that has come to mean the very bliss of 

64 



MY LADY CLOVER 

luxury and abundance. We might study clov- 
ers for weeks and weeks and then not half ap- 
preciate their worth and beauty, or in truth ex- 
haust the long list. 

No plant is of more value to the farmer than 
the clover, -or indeed to all mankind; for what 
benefits the farmer benefits all. Chief of its 
uses, perhaps, and one which you might not 
think of it you were asked to name them, is its 
value as a means of enriching the soil. The 
clover is a legume, you know, own cousin to 
the garden and stock peas, and to the alfalfa, 
It has on its roots little tubercles or nodules, 
which are no more nor less than little plant- 
storehouses, whose business it is to store up the 
nitrogen which the plant gathers from the air. 
When clover is planted as a "cover crop" and 
turned under to enrich the soil, these little nod- 
ules release their nitrogen, w T hich mixes with 
the earth to form nitrates, and in this fashion 
is easily taken up and used by whatever crop 
may be sown to reap the richness. Orchard 
men commonly sow clover in the fall, and turn 
under the crop the following spring that the 
fruit trees may feed from this valuable source 
of fertility. 

In addition to their power of storing nitro- 

65 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

gen, clovers by reason of their deep and spread- 
ing root systems make the best possible green 
manures for adding humus — vegetable matter — 
to the soil. Crimson clover is the one most often 
used for "cover crops." 

Though the clovers of all kinds are a delight 
to the bees, the honey bee who really "lives in 
clover" chooses a white clover field. By the 
way, did you ever sit off at a safe distance and 
watch one of these busy workers through an 
opera glass? In the lens, the clover blooms be- 
come a collection of little white-tubed honey- 
jars, which the bees, standing on their heads, 
empty with marvelous quickness. Each little 
fellow knows to a nicety when he is loaded, and 
looses not an instant in darting off to the hive in 
a "bee-line," straight and true as a geometrical 
drawing. Indeed these little artisans are master 
hands at lines and exact patterns. Where is the 
pencil and rule that could draw a six-sided box 
straighter and truer than the hexagon cells into 
which his honey is stored? 

The white clover, or shamrock, is the national 
flower of Ireland, and claims an equal place in 
history with England's rose and Scotland's this- 
tle, and is the emblem of promise. It is said that 
if sod ground is plowed and strewed with lime, 

66 



MY LADY CLOVER 

white clover will spring up in abundance, typi- 
fying the promise of future bounteous crops. 

The Happy Hunting Grounds of the bumble- 
bees is the farmer's red clover field. And that 
they do invaluable service there is proved in the 
experience of the Australians, who imported 
quantities of clover seed, and had glorious fields 
of it that season, but not a single seed was set, 
because the bumblebees who attend to the dis- 
tribution of the pollen had been left behind! 
Next year the experiment was again tried, and 
the bumblebees were not forgotten, with the 
result that clover was a success in its new home. 
Does any of the bumblebee's delight in his won- 
drous pasture come from pleasure in the service 
he performs? Not at all: indeed it is doubtful 
if he knows the good that he does. His happi- 
ness lies in the knowledge that none but the 
butterfly's long tongue can share the plentiful 
feast that is spread; so he booms lazily about 
and takes his time to sip the honey from each 
brimming floret. Perchance, it might be better 
if he did realize his importance, and hurried a 
little at the task! For the butterflies are doubt- 
ful visitors, if not actually injurious. Their 
long slender tongues sip up the nectar, barely 
touching the pollen which waits to be spread; 

67 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

and some of the tribe alas! nip holes at the base 
of the honey tube, and so leave the plant a prey- 
to the gall-making beetle and the cutworm. 

"What did the sulphur butterflies provide as 
food for their caterpillar babies before the com- 
monest clovers came over from the Old World 
to possess the soil?" queries Blanchan. "Wher- 
ever a trifolium (the family name of the clover) 
grows, there one is sure to see 

'Sallow-yellow butterflies, 
Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose, 
When autumn winds arise.' " 

Besides the multitude of sulphurs, the "dusky 
wings" and various others of the Lepidoptera 
and their caterpillars feast upon the clovers. 
Indeed, a botanist, keeping tab on the insect 
visitors to a certain red clover plant, found that 
thirteen out of twenty of the comers were butter- 
flies! 

Clovers have advertising cards or signs that 
the insects read most plainly. Right well does 
the little busy bee know which florets contain 
nectar, and which are done for. And so may 
you also, if you but read as he does, the moment 
a floret has been drained of its nectar and the 
seed set, the seed-vessel closes over and the floret 
turns brown and hangs downward. "No visit- 

68 



MY LADY CLOVER 

ing in business hours/' this brown signal says, 
and the bee promptly alights on a fresh erect 
floret that is ready not only to welcome him, but 
to reward him richly for taking the trouble to 
call. When all the florets in a head have been 
fertilized, it stands brown and crumpled, en- 
deavoring to look as discouraging as possible to 
such enemies as might suspect the presence of 
the little green seed-treasures, and feast upon 
them. Usually two, rarely three or four, seeds 
form in a seed-pod. 

How many of the clover family can you name 
on sight? And have you ever by chance visited 
a clover field after nightfall to see how the plant 
puts her leaves to bed? 



69 



THE PROUD POPPY AND THE 
LITTLE BLUE CORNFLOWER 

ACCORDING to an old, old legend there was 
once upon a time a little maiden called Papava. 
But, though she was the daughter of a king and 
very beautiful, she was not what such a noble 
gifted little lady should have been. She was 
selfish and willful, and her great black eyes 
were wont to snap stormily, and her richly-shod 
little feet that should have danced about happily 
all day stamped angrily because things did not 
go to suit her. Try as they might no one could 
please her, not even her worshipful parents, who 
were continuously bringing her some new and 
wonderful gift. 

Such beautiful things as the little princess 
had! Every morning her raven locks were 
combed with a glistening jewel-studded comb; 
her breakfast came up on a golden tray, and 
her dishes were all of solid silver and the most 
beautiful sparkling crystal. No child ever had 
more marvelous toys, and her dresses were beau- 
tiful dreams. Red was the color Papava liked 

70 



THE PROUD POPPY AND THE LITTLE CORNFLOWER 

best, because it set off her black curls and olive 
skin to the best advantage. So most of her 
silks and velvets — she would wear nothing else 
— were of the richest most glowing shades. Even 
her little nightrobe was of the heaviest, deepest- 
pile wine-red velvet, trimmed with a golden 
cord and solid gold buttons. 

Because of her ill-temper and disagreeable 
ways, Papava had no little friends of her own. 
Indeed, she did not think there was any one in 
all the realm good enough to associate with her. 
"I am the king's daughter," she would say 
haughtily, and her tone added, "Who are you?" 

So none of the royal parents' friends — and 
they were many — loved their little daughter. 
"She is a disobedient, ungrateful child," they 
said, "who can never bring anything but sorrow 
to the realm." 

While her nurse and the good queen's maid 
agreed over their tea-cups below stairs, that they 
would like to whip the child until she couldn't 
stand! "Only," added the nurse, wisely, "it 
would be energy wasted! What Papava needs 
is to be put off somewhere and treated like 
common folks. It is ill for a child to have her 
own way in all things, whether she be the daugh- 
ter of a king or of a peasant." 

71 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

"And Papava does not even know her own 
way!" the queen's maid had added. "Never in 
all the world was there a more changeful, trou- 
blesome, impulsive child!" 

So you see there was bad work for somebody 
to undo, and it was small wonder that here and 
there were many among those who loved the 
king and queen whose heads shook sorrowfully 
as they wondered how it was all to end. 

Chief among those who had to bear the brunt 
of Papava's ill-nature was her own little waiting 
maid, a child so sweet and sunny and so evenly 
balanced that not all Papava's fractiousness 
could rile her. And it was well, agreed the 
king's household, for not one of them could 
stand what Little Blue Corny had to put up 
with. 

"Little Blue Corny!" you exclaim, "A strange 
name for a sweet maid!" 

And yet one very appropriate, as most nick- 
names are, when you know the whole circum- 
stances. 

Cornelia was the little maid's name, — a name 
altogether too staid, high-sounding and large 
for her cheerful, humble little person. Blue 
were her eyes as the summer sky, and blue al- 
ways was her dress; so what better than "Little 

72 



THE PROUD POPPY AND THE LITTLE CORNFLOWER 

Blue Corny," spoken always in a tone of love 
and affection? For no one could look upon the 
child without feeling their hearts growing 
lighter, and more than once was voiced the 
thought: "Ah, if she could only have been the 
king's daughter!" 

Strangely enough, however, the witches and 
genii of those days failed to see what would have 
been a clever solution of the court problem, and 
so Papava went on to her own fate. 

"Let us go into the fields!" she commanded 
haughtily, one day, her eye having been taken 
with the scene of the reapers at work in the 
wheat. And Little Blue Corny bowed submis- 
sively, as became a humble little waiting maid, 
though well she knew it was no place for the 
proud little daughter of the king. 

Forth they went at once through the palace 
gates, and the laborers, when they saw who was 
coming into their midst, removed their hats and 
bowed low in homage before the princess. 
Papava, however, scorned to acknowledge their 
greeting : it was but meet that they should bow 
before the king's daughter, and she swept on 
with high head and mincing steps, her manner 
as unfitting to a child, as was her rich, splendid 
apparel. 

73 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

But not so Little Blue Corny, following re- 
spectfully after the princess, in her simple little 
blue gown; right and left her smiles flashed 
happily upon her friends, and every now and 
then she had something pleasant to say to the 
honest workmen who regarded her so kindly. 

The look on the swift-changing faces might 
have been a revelation even to self-centered lit* 
tie Papava, had she not been too haughty to turn 
her head! But no; straight on down the long 
fields they went, and ever and anon, as they 
passed the working groups, their progress was 
the same. Finally they came to the far end of 
the field, and the princess, looking about for 
some chance to display her power, seized upon 
the flimsiest kind of an excuse. 

"It is going to rain,' 5 she cried shrilly, indi- 
cating a small cloud which had that instant 
swept across the sun. "Let a shelter be built for 
me at once!" 

The men stared at one another in dismay. 
Their day's task was heavy, and the wheat w r as 
over-ripe. It needed to be handled with care 
and got into the sheaves without delay. For 
alas! not a grain must be wasted. There were 
many mouths to feed, and bread would be scarce 
at best. What should they do? 

74 



THE PROUD POPPY AND THE LITTLE CORNFLOWER 

"Obey me at once," stormed the princess, 
stamping her foot over their hesitation, and 
sweeping them with a glance that would have 
slain could glances kill. "At once! Build me 
a shelter from your sheaves ! The rain must not 
touch me!" 

Plainly enough her tone added, "For I am 
the princess," and the men knew they dared not 
disobey. But to use the precious sheaves which 
could ill-stand handling! It was wanton waste 
and madness. And still they hesitated. 

Old Franc, a man who had long served and 
reverenced the king, advanced and bent low: 
"See, my princess," he said, placatingly, point- 
ing to the cloud which w r as even then sweeping 
away, "it is not going to rain. Not even one 
drop will fall! And we dare not waste the 
sheaves! Bread is scarce, and our people will 
have much ado to get through the winter!" 

"Silence!" commanded Papava, her foot 
again striking the stubble, and her wrath rising 
in a frenzy. Who were these laborers that they 
dared question the needs of the people before 
the wishes of the king's daughter? "I will have 
shelter," she shrieked. "Build me a hut at once 
of your sheaves, or leave the service of the realm 
forever!" 

75 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

Sullenly the men obeyed, while the princess 
stood in haughty, ireful waiting, and the Little 
Blue Corny pressed her apron mistily to her 
eyes to shut out the vision of the poor women 
and children who must know cruel want for 
those wasting grains that slipped from the rip- 
ened sheaves as the hut took shape. 

At last all was done: sheaves for the floor, 
sheaves for the walls, sheaves for the roof — pre- 
cious sheaves which cried in low mournful 
plaint, "Bread, bread, BREAD!" 

And Papava, though she knew full well that 
she was wickedly and woefully in the wrong, 
turned a deaf ear: "Come!" she said sharply, 
to her waiting maid, and drew sorrowing Little 
Blue Corny into the hut beside her. 

Instantly there was a blinding flash, which 
seemed to the men to come from heaven's own 
blue — certain it was that the little cloud had 
long since vanished; and in a twinkling the 
house of sheaves was in snapping, crackling 
flames over the heads of the haughty little prin- 
cess and her patient maid! 

Powerless were the men to save them, so fierce 
and terrible was the heat, and they stood awe- 
struck and paralyzed to the very marrow with 
fear. Alas! the headstrong, willful little Pa- 

76 



THE PROUD POPPY AND THE LITTLE CORNFLOWER 

pava, the precious sheaves, and poor dear Little 
Blue Corny! It was all over in an instant al- 
most. Bareheaded and in silence the men stood 
about the blackened, charred heap, until at 
length old Franc spoke aloud the thought of 
all: "It was the judgment of the great God!" 
he said solemnly, and turned away to the palace 
to acquaint the good king and queen of the sad 
event. 

The following summer, when the golden corn 
stood tall and straight, in the field where the 
wheat had been, lo! there sprang from the site 
of the blackened and charred heap two flowers 
that were utterly unlike one another : one was a 
flaunting, rich red beauty, the other was a de- 
mure little blue flower of wondrous loveliness, 

"Haughty Papava and Little Blue Corny!" 
said all the beholders in awed voices. For most 
surely did these flowers, springing from the 
ashes of the children, typify the character of 
each. 

Sin and innocence! Cruel pride and loving 
kindness ! Rich red poppy and little blue corn- 
flower I 

So we see them in the gardens to-day. 



77 



A LEGEND OF THE IRIS 

Princess Iris was the favorite attendant and 
messenger of Juno, the queen of heaven. She 
it was who always went to the bedside of dying 
ones, as the messenger of peace and promise to 
bear away the departing spirit The ancients 
pictured her with wings and encircled by a rain- 
bow, for the rainbow was the special magic 
bridge, fashioned by Juno, on which the prin- 
cess came down to earth, and over which none 
but she ever traveled. Red and purple clouds 
were her wrappings, and her golden chariot was 
drawn by two handsome peacocks, whose gor- 
geous tails spread out in the sun and shone like 
the colors in the rainbow itself. 

Iris loved the waters of the earth, for in them 
she could always see the reflection of her own 
rainbow colors, and she never failed in passing 
to tarry for awhile along shore. One day, it 
chanced that as she drifted idly to earth, shaking 
water-drops from the clouds for the pure pleas- 
ure of seeing them sparkle in the light, she saw 
far below her the shining waters of a lake, and 
at once directed her chariot thither. 

78 



A LEGEND OF THE IRIS 

Stepping out the moment her steeds touched 
the earth, how was she charmed and delighted 
in finding some beautiful flowers growing close 
to the water, stately and tall. "As blue as the 
blue waters of the sea!" she cried happily, and 
bent admiringly above the blossoms, touching 
the petals here and there lovingly, and all un- 
heeding that the drops from her own rainbow 
hues were sprinkling the flowers plentifully. 

No sooner had she passed on than some chil- 
dren came that way. "Oh, look!" they cried, 
wonderingly. "See this radiant blue lily, all 
shining with rainbow hues. Let us pick it for 
the Festival of the Flowers!" 

Happy, happy children, as they bore their 
treasure to the hall, where all the gardeners and 
flower lovers were exhibiting their choicest 
blossoms. 

"Where did this lovely thing come from?" 
cried the judges, deeply pleased. "What is it 
called?" 

None knew. But one and all agreed that 
against the rich loveliness of its robes not a 
flower there could compete. Deep blue they 
were like the twilight sky, and as softly shaded 
as the cloudlets, while here and there was a rich 

79 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

loveliness of tint sparkling like the rainbow in 
the sun. 

"Iris!" some one cried. "The rainbow mes- 
senger! She is ever tarrying at the waterside. 
Surely she has kissed this bloom! In her honor 
let the flower be named." 

And so, to this day, the tall lovely blue lily 
that grows by the water's edge, half hidden 
among its own sword-like leaves, is called iris, 
in memory of Iris, the rainbow queen. 

This beautiful flower has another name also, 
and one perhaps with which you are more fa- 
miliar, for it is the name that our grandmothers 
give it: flower-de-luce. A name that is also rich 
in honor, and dates back to the time of Louis 
the Seventh, the king of France. Having dis- 
tinguished himself in the second crusade, the 
king desired, according to the custom of the 
time, to select a particular blazon. He, there- 
fore, caused the Iris to be emblazoned on the 
arms of France, and it thus became the "flower 
of Louis." Ages passed, Louis shortened to 
Luce, and this lovely species of the lily became 
the flower-de-luce, the typical flower of chivalry 
which has, as Ruskin so aptly pointed out, "a 
sword for its leaf and a lily for a heart." 



80 



LOTUS BLOSSOMS 

Do you know the lotus blossoms? How mar- 
velous they are, like golden plates, measuring 
from four to ten inches across, floating on the 
surface of lakes, slow-streams and ponds, here 
and there, from Ontario southward to Florida, 
and westward to Louisiana and Oklahoma. A 
yellow form of the sweet-scented white water 
lily, they seem; but there are fewer petals, and 
these center into a host of stamens. The great 
round, ribbed leaves, smooth above, and lined 
with hairs below, are kept floating by means of 
the great air canals, which run through both 
leaf and flower stalks. How truly wonderful 
it is that roots imbedded deep in mud and slime 
can send up flowers of such sweetness and pur- 
ity! And what a silent sermon is here preached 
for man ! 

Small wonder that the ancient Egyptians and 
many millions in India, Persia, China and Ja- 
pan, have bowed their heads in adoration of the 
lotus blooms of the Old World. The Egyptians 
dedicated their species, the sacred lotus, to the 

81 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

sun-god, and looked upon it as an emblem of 
the creation of the world from water. This 
explains why that, in pictures of Egyptian art, 
the lotus blossoms always stand up so grandly, 
king above the people and animals that share 
the picture. From the center of the lotus bloom 
came forth Brahma, the great Hindu creator 
of the universe; likewise, too, Buddha, the Mo- 
hammedan reformer, whose symbol is the lotus, 
also appeared floating on this mystic flower. 

The flat-topped seed-vessel of the lotus ripens 
above the water, and herein are located little 
round nuts, which the water birds love to pick 
out and enjoy, and incidentally to distribute in 
their wanderings. In various foreign lands the 
natives eat both nuts and root of the different 
species of lotus; and one particular kind of these 
nuts was held by the early peoples to possess 
some very wonderful properties. This nut had 
the flavor of ripened dates, and its effect on the 
homesick wanderer was most marvelous. Who- 
soever ate of it on a foreign shore, at once forgot 
his native land, his family, and his friends, and 
was content to dwell among the strangers about 
him for aye! 

In the old Grecian records of the Adventures 
of Ulysses is recorded the narrow escape that he 

82 



LOTUS BLOSSOMS 

and his crew had in the land of the Lotus-eaters, 
— a people whose sole food consisted of lotus 
fruit and blossoms. Briefly the tale runs some- 
thing in this wise : 

Ulysses, the king of Ithaca, went up against 
Troy, which he left behind him in ruins, and 
set forth upon further adventures. Fortune, 
however, now turned against him. The next 
rich city he attacked repulsed him and his men 
with great slaughter. A hurricane arose as they 
put out to sea, storm-clouds blotted out the stars 
so that the pilots could not hold to their course, 
and buffeted by wind and wave, the king's ves- 
sels with broken masts and torn sails, drifted 
aimlessly, anchoring at last on the fateful shore 
of Lotophagi. 

There Ulysses dispatched three men ashore 
to seek aid. These men, however, failed to re- 
turn, and at length the king, in deepest anxiety, 
made up a party and went out in their search, 
expecting to find them imprisoned, if not eaten, 
by a cannibal host. Imagine then his surprise, 
when, having gone a short distance, he came 
upon a jolly party, laughing and feasting be- 
neath the trees, and in their midst, more merry 
and boisterous than their hosts, the three men 
whom he had sent for help. Justly wroth, 

83 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

Ulysses called their names sharply, but to his 
further indignation the three paid him no more 
attention than if he had never been their master. 
Indeed, to all appearances, they looked upon 
him and his men as curiously as did the strang- 
ers whose hospitality they enjoyed! 

"Surely," thought Ulysses to himself, "there 
is something remarkably strange in all this!" 

And he advanced with caution. 

His hosts, however, came eagerly to meet him, 
and extended the warmest welcome. "We have 
not much to offer you in the way of meat and 
drink," they said, "as we live entirely upon the 
fruit of the lotus. But it satisfies us abundantly, 
and doubtless you, too, will find that it supplies 
all that you require." 

So saying they offered a great basket of the 
tempting fare. 

But Ulysses waved it aside. In sharp tones 
he forbade his men eating any of the nuts on 
penalty of death, and he ordered, "Right about 
face, to the ship without delay!" At the same 
time signing for the three scouts whom he had 
sent out, to fall in. Instead of obeying, how- 
ever, these men shrugged their shoulders, and 
reached again for a supply of the delicious food. 

Greatly excited and indignant, fearful of 

84 



LOTUS BLOSSOMS 

mutiny from the rebellion he read in the faces 
of his crew, Ulysses at once called out six of 
his strongest, most trusted men: "Seize these 
deserters," he said sternly, "and to the ship every 
one of you; there is the fiends' own magic in 
this tempting lotus food! Look sharp, men, as 
you value the life and happiness of your wives 
and little ones!" 

His sureness and promptness had the desired 
effect; instantly the crew rallied about him; the 
deserters were hauled protestingly away, and in 
short order the disabled Grecian ships were out 
in the bay, bound whither they knew not, but 
anywhere to escape the dreadful fate which 
Ulysses knew had all but clutched them. 

As for the three men who had been minded to 
stay in the realm of the Lotus-eaters, no sooner 
had that land disappeared from view, than the 
magic of the direful food loosed its hold, and 
when they realized what had so nearly befallen 
them, they gathered about their brave leader and 
thanked him with trembling voices and misty 
eyes for the courageous measures which had 
saved them from being traitors to home and 
friends. 



85 



THE ANEMONE 

Wind-flower, wind-flower, why are you here? 
This is a boisterous time of the year 
For blossoms as fragile and tender as you 
To be out on the roadsides, in spring raiment new. 
The snow-flakes yet flutter abroad on the air, 
And the sleet and the tempest are weary to bear, 
Have you not come here, pale darling, too soon? 
You would seem more at home wnth the blossoms in 
June. 

— Lucy Larcom. 

And what, think you, was the wind-flower's 
answer? "Why have I come here? Why?" she 
said. "Perhaps to show you that the strong may 
be sometimes the delicate, too!" 

We need only to go back into the history of 
the wind-flower's origin to quite believe this 
word for word: You know that long ago the 
earth was far from being the safe place to dwell 
upon that it is now. There used to be numerous 
roaming wild beasts that killed many people and 
destroyed the crops. The brave men in those 
days were all mighty hunters, and sometimes for 
days and days parties scoured the woods to de- 
stroy wild beasts. 

86 



THE ANEMONE 

Among these mighty men who so often cov- 
ered themselves with glory was a certain youth 
called Adonis, to whom no danger was too great, 
no hardship too severe, for his courage to endure. 
Seeing that he was reckless in exposing him- 
self, the goddess Venus, who loved him, made 
haste to urge a warning: "Be brave, my lad," 
she said, "when you meet the timid, but do not 
oppose your courage to the courageous. Do not 
attack the beasts that Nature has armed with 
weapons. Think of their terrible horns and 
claws and teeth I What honor will it be to you 
if you lose your life in their destruction? Be- 
ware how you expose yourself to danger!" 

Adonis, however, only laughed at her fears, 
and waved to her gayly as she entered her 
chariot and was wheeled swiftly away by her 
graceful white swans. 

The next moment he was attracted by the loud 
barking of his dogs, and seeing that they had 
roused a wild boar from its lair he instantly 
gave chase, notwithstanding that it was one of 
the fiercest and most vicious of the dreaded 
beasts, and that he was unarmed but for his 
spear. 

Away through the forest they went headlong, 
and presently Adonis, pressing an advantage, 

87 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

hurled his spear, and wounded the animal so 
that it was driven into a perfect frenzy of pain 
and rage. Gnawing at the weapon which stuck 
in its side, the creature managed to drop the 
rankling thing, and then flew at its enemy in a 
passion of fury. Adonis, perforce, took to his 
heels, and ran as fast as he could, but alas! the 
boar gained on him at every bound, and shortly 
the youth was overcome and left, gored and ter- 
ribly mutilated by the creature's tusks, dying 
alone in an open stretch in the woods. 

And hither came Venus, attracted by his 
heart-rending groans. When she saw that it 
was her beloved young hero, w T ho lay stretched 
there, and that nothing could be done, she cried 
out in great grief: "Oh, Adonis, my beloved, 
each spring you shall return to earth that all 
the world may delight in you and remember 
your prowess." 

And so it happened that the next season, on 
the spot where Adonis had fallen, there sprang 
up a quantity of flowers, streaked here and there 
with red the color of blood. But they, like the 
young hunter, were short lived. They came, 
however, shortly to be scattered well over the 
wooded hillsides of the Old World, and west- 
ward to the Rocky Mountains in the New. 

88 



THE ANEMONE 

It is said that the wind blows the blossoms 
open, and afterwards blows the petals away; so 
the plant is called anemone or wind-flower. In 
China, it is styled the "death bloom," and is 
much planted in grave-yards. The old Romans 
always picked the first wind-flowers with sol- 
emity and prayer, believing that due reverence 
of it would keep them safe from fever through- 
out the year. Even to this day certain European 
peasants, it is said, run past a colony of innocent 
wind-flowers with dread in their hearts, fairly 
holding their breath as they fly, for they think 
that the air all about them is tainted with death. 

According to another old Greek tradition, 
Anemos, the ruler of the winds, always sent 
these delicate star-like namesakes as harbinger 
of the rude and war-like gusts which were short- 
ly to come from his island realms away in the 
seas, no one knew just whither. Certain it is 
that the anemone is the "child of the wind." 
It is "fed and refreshed by the cold, rushing 
rains, and the storm rocks its cradle with lulla- 
bies wild." No blast, however fierce, can break 
its slender, pliable stem, as it trembles and bows 
in meek submission to its fate. 

Pick the anemone and it is soon wilted and 
gone; dig it up carefully, keeping as much dirt 

89 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

firm about the roots as possible, and it will 
bloom for many days in a pot on the window 
sill, a delight to all beholders. It is then that 
we take time to observe the plant carefully: 
How beautiful is the background of pretty 
leaves whorled where they set off the lone flower 
to best advantage, and how dainty are its petals! 
Stay! Are they petals? No, indeed, we see 
now that this is another one of those economical 
plants that makes shift to use its sepals as an 
advertising card. Nor is it altogether depend- 
ent on insect visitors, for these are apt to be few 
in the windy days of early spring. As the blos- 
soms nod on the stem, they are so arranged that 
the pollen may fall in such a fashion as to self- 
set the seed, in case none is brought in from the 
colony of wind-flowers round about. 

The anemone is a member of the great Crow- 
foot family. How many of its cousins have we 
already mentioned, do you remember? Two 
species are commonly recognized — the rue- 
anemone, of the wind-swept hillsides, which is 
the most familiar species, and the wood or true 
anemone. 



90 



CLYTIE 

A LEGEND OF THE SUNFLOWER 

ONCE upon a time there was a beautiful wood- 
land nymph named Clytie. Her hair was a 
lovely golden color, just the shade of the cow- 
slips and buttercups that grew in the meadows 
where she loved to roam. Her dress was green 
and so nearly matched the grass and the leaves 
that she was easily hidden among them. 

Day after day Clytie sat among the swaying 
flowers, listening to the brook, as it went mur- 
muring happily along, but her eyes were neither 
for the beautiful blossoms nor the gleaming 
water. Her face was ever turned in adoration 
toward the sun, and how very, very much she 
wished that Apollo, the sungod, would swoop 
down in his golden chariot and take her with 
him. What joy it would be to dart out the 
rosy gates of dawn, upward and aloft, in that 
marvelous golden chariot, drawn by the fiery 
steeds fed always on ambrosia, and guided by 
Apollo's strong arms and far-seeing eye! What 
fun to watch the moon and the stars slipping off 
to their beds> and to see the earth beginning to 

91 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

glow and kindle under Apollo's rays! Glorious 
Apollo, there was no love like his; if only, he 
would but come down to her! And so the fool- 
ish maiden sat ever with her face turned toward 
him, waiting and hoping for something that 
could never be. 

Sometimes dark clouds veiled the sun-god, 
and then Clytie was sad and unhappy, and her 
face drooped. But, if the rain came suddenly, 
then she waved her arms and shouted with glee, 
for she knew that soon Apollo's face would come 
peeping out. When the sun started down toward 
the western horizon, and the shadows grew long, 
Clytie always rose with her arms full of the 
flowers that she had absently plucked, and hur- 
ried to the top of a high hill, stumbling sadly 
sometimes, for never for one moment did her 
eyes leave the fast disappearing chariot. Here, 
when Apollo had quite gone, she stood staring 
at the clouds so long as their purple and pink 
and golden loveliness reflected his glory, then 
as quietly and sweetly as flowers go to sleep, she 
sank to rest upon the mossy earth. 

Nor did she ever fail to rouse with the first 
twitter of the birds in the morning; Apollo's 
first glance over the shining rim of his chariot 

92 



CLYTIE 

always saw her standing waiting eagerly for 
him: 

"Her golden locks, streaming wide, 
Were kissed by zephyrs gay; 
Her charming face they did not hide 
From the eyes of the god of day. 

"But bright Apollo did not care 
To woo this tender dove. 
From morn till eve she waited there 
To catch one glance of love." 

And at last so disappointed was the maid that 
she could no longer roam about in her usual 
happy way. For nine days she sat and tasted 
neither food nor drink, her own silly tears her 
only nourishment. Each morning as the sun 
came up, she begged Apollo with her pleading 
eyes, and all day long as he followed his daily 
course, she saw no other object. Why, oh! why, 
would he not come and take her with him? 
Wondrous, beautiful, golden Apollo! 

"Bless the child," murmured the sun-god, 
more than once, knowing full well how it was 
with her, "she is not immortal; she could not 
ride by my side! Why, the fiery breath of my 
steeds would crisp a nymph in a twinkling!" 

But he determined to ask Jupiter to interfere. 
Thus it was that, on the ninth morning, as Cly- 

93 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

tie sat faint and weary, still watching Apollo in 
prayerful appeal, that all suddenly her limbs 
took root in the moist soil, and her sweet face 
became a flower, with golden curls a-flying. 
Straight and tall the flower stood proudly on its 
stalk, with pale green leaves about it, and as the 
sun moved slowly across the sky the flower-face 
followed the golden chariot slowly from east 
to west. And so Clytie stands 

". . . to-day as she stood then, 
A sunflower, strong and bright; 

A sign of constancy to men 
Who sometimes scorn and slight." 

It is a fanciful legend. But the belief that 
the sun-flower turns always on its stem to face 
the sun is not strictly true. It is, however, a 
world-wide emblem of constancy. Thus 
Moore's lovely lines : 

"The heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close; 
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets 
The same look that she turned when he rose." 



94 



THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 

In a grim old castle with thick walls and tall 
towers, high up among the snow-capped Alpine 
peaks, a little girl lay very ill. She was a 
favorite in the castle and in the monastery be- 
low, and for her sake the busy maids went about 
their Christmas preparations half-heartedly, 
and the monks came and went on errands of 
love. Father Celestine, famous for his skill in 
healing, knelt beside the little white. bed and 
ministered to the child with tender care. An 
old shepherd, from far down the valley, came 
to bring his little friend a wooden lamb which 
he had patiently carved and painted. But even 
its startling black eyes and cherry lips failed 
to interest the little patient. By and by she 
drifted off into a deep sleep. Monk and shep- 
herd stole away on tip-toe, hoping that she 
would wake refreshed, and only the mother, the 
Lady Walpurga, watched beside the little one. 

Presently the child started up with out- 
stretched arms: "Look, mother, look!" she 
cried, "See the beautiful lady and all the little 

95 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

children! See, she has given me roses, white 
roses!" Then she sank back, with closed eyes. 

The poor mother was nearly frantic with 
grief. "It is the beautiful angels of heaven/' 
she sobbed, "and my darling will soon join 
them!" She fell on her knees and wept bitterly. 
Then a thought of Father Celestine came to her. 
Perhaps he might even yet administer some sav- 
ing herb! She called to the servants to send 
for him. But all had gone to Christmas mass, 
excepting an old dame in the chimney-corner, 
who stayed to keep an eye on the pots and kettles. 

Leaving this woman by the child, the mother 
herself set off down the mountain in great haste. 
The peaks were still tipped with rosy light, but 
down in the valley Night had draw r n her sable 
mantle. Into this gloom the heavy-hearted 
mother hurried, with no guide but the glimmer- 
ing lights in the convent and no sound to cheer 
her save the crunching snow. 

Presently there appeared before her a long 
procession of misty figures. A tall beautiful 
woman in a long white cloak walked in the lead, 
and following her came a troop of children, 
also dressed in long white cloaks. Lady Wal- 
purga quickly hid herself, and watched their 
sweet, serious faces with bated breath. At the 

96 



THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 

very last came a little girl who seemed to have 
great difficulty in keeping up with the others. 
Her cloak was too long and she stumbled every 
now and then in a most distressing fashion. Lady 
Walpurga was so sorry for her that she forgot 
all about her fright. She ran to the little one, 
and kneeling down, pinned the cloak up out of 
harm's way, and brushed off the chilling snow. 

As the mother rose to her feet, the beautiful 
leader turned and smiled radiantly; then pointed 
slowly to the ground beside her. A merry peal 
from the convent bells rang over the snow, and 
the procession magically disappeared. Lady 
Walpurga rubbed her eyes as though to clear 
them of dreams, and advanced hesitatingly to 
the spot where the beautiful lady had pointed. 
And lo ! out of the ice and the snow, she beheld 
a beautiful little bush, standing all covered with 
clustering green leaves and snow-white blos- 
soms. 

"The white roses that my little daughter saw 
in her vision 1" she cried delightedly. "Who 
knows what magic they may contain?" 

Speedily plucking a few blossoms she hur- 
ried back to the old manor, forgetting Father 
Celestine entirely. At home she found the old 
shepherd giving a drink of goat's milk and juni- 

97 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

per berries to the little one. She pushed him 
one side and breathlessly placed the roses in the 
little trembling hands. 

A low murmur of delight broke from the 
child. She buried her face happily in the roses 
and drew in deep breaths of their spicy odor. 
Presently she began to sneeze, and oh, how she 
sneezed ! So hard that the little white bed fairly 
shook, and the mother and the good shepherd 
were frightened almost out of their senses. But 
soon the paroxysm passed. "Water, give me 
water!" gasped the little one. The old shepherd 
held his cup to her lips. She drank thirstily 
and sank back in a deep, natural sleep. 

"The saints be praised!" cried the shepherd, 
"The fever has broken. My drink and the 
sneezing have saved her!" 

"'Twas these blessed roses!" cried the Lady 
Walpurga, and with tears of joy glistening in 
her eyes, she told how 7 she had found them. 

Instantly the old shepherd bent to examine 
the blossoms, which until that moment he had 
scarcely heeded. "'Tis the Christmas rose— the 
sneezewort that only a few people have ever 
seen," he cried, excitedly. "Count the petals! 
See how many there are — more than a hundred, 
some folks say. As for the orocession, it was 

98 



THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 

none other than Frau Berchta, the White Witch, 
and her Little People," he declared, solemnly. 
"It's lucky that you have a kind heart, my lady. 
For the good Frau wanders about over the 
mountains from Christmas to Twelfth Night, 
'tis said, blessing all whom she finds worthy. 
Always she is especially pleased with any form 
of kindness, and bounteously repays the doer. 
Rest assured, the child will live!" 

As though confirming this blessed intelli- 
gence, from the cloister below there now came 
the swelling sounds of the Christmas anthem: 
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace 
and good will toward men" and the mother and 
the good shepherd bowed their heads, and stood 
with glad and happy hearts. 



99 



PIXIES AND TULIPS 

In Devonshire, not far from a marsh where 
the pixies used to hold their nightly revels, there 
lived an old woman who was very fond of flow- 
ers. Such a marvelous garden as she had! Even 
the king and queen, one day in passing, paused 
to admire her wondrous tulip bed. There was 
not its like in the whole country round. Such 
great deep-cupped, many-hued tulips as there 
were, and so sweet-scented that the air all about 
was heavy with fragrance! The place was 
especially the joy and delight of the pixies, and 
after nightfall they were always to be seen about 
the bed. And none but the old lady knew why : 
the tulips were such ideal pixie cradles that 
the mother-pixies delighted to put their little 
ones to sleep there. Indeed nothing could have 
been more convenient than this lovely nursery 
so close to their tournament ground! 

So, night after night, in the wee, small hours, 
there often drifted up to the old lady's room, 
close under the thatch, the strains of sweetest 
music. "'Tis fairy music," she would say hap- 

100 



PIXIES AND TULIPS 

pily. "Who could doubt it?" And her dreams 
thereafter would be filled with pleasing fancies 
of herself as the benefactor of the fairy horde. 
But she never ventured near the bed after night- 
fall. She was afraid of frightening her guests 
away. 

As for the tulips themselves, blessed and 
doubly blessed they were by their delighted visi- 
tors, and they grew to such size and of such 
matchless elegance that on no account would the 
good dame allow one to be picked. 

Months went on, and finally the old lady was 
taken very ill and died. Her son, a coarse, 
rough fellow, who had always thought his 
mother wasted altogether too much land in flow- 
ers, at once determined to plow up the tulip 
bed. "They are a useless weed," he said. "I 
shall grow beets and parsnips for the stock in 
their stead." 

And he was as good as his word. Before the 
kind-hearted owner of the garden had been three 
days in her grave, the tulips were gone, and in 
their place stretched a strip of blackest loam, 
all duly marked and planted in the straightest 
possible rows. 

"No good will come of it," said the neighbors, 
who knew how the old dame had prized her 

101 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

flowers, and one and all heard the mournful wail 
that swept all up and down the valley that night. 
"'Tis an indignation meeting/' they agreed. 
"Bob might better have saved his seed." 

And so it proved, for not a single spear of 
green ever appeared above ground. 

"Bosh!" said the son, when he heard what 
people were saying, "pixies be hanged! The 
seed was old; I feared it would never sprout. I 
shall plant the patch to corn." 

It was done forthwith, but again the mourn- 
ful wail rose and fell through the long night. 
And the people shook their heads : "It's no use," 
they said. "The pixies will never forgive the 
despoiling of their nursery." For on her death- 
bed the old lady had told the secret of the pixie 
cradles, begging that they should never be dis- 
turbed. And her son had promised. But he 
had not thought it necessary to keep his word. 
"It was only a dying woman's whim," he said. 

However, precious little good his broken 
promise did him: he had his work all for noth- 
ing. For the ground remained fresh and black 
as when the soil was first turned, and never a 
sprig of green of any sort marked its level 
surface. 

But not so with the old lady's grave. Though 

102 



PIXIES AND TULIPS 

no mortal ever tended it, the most wondrous 
tulips bloomed over and all about it: proof 
positive that the pixies knew where their kind 
friend slept. Moreover, people passing that 
way late at night often heard the sweetest strains 
of fairy music. "'Tis the pixie mothers putting 
their babies to sleep in the tulip cradles," they 
would say. "Hark to their silvery-toned lulla- 
bies!" 



103 



LADY COLUMBINE 

Who would ever guess that the delicate little 
anemone and hepatica are kin of the elegant and 
stylish-looking Lady Columbine? But then no 
one would ever know that the modest little 
bloodroot, blooming shyly in out-of-the-way 
places, was related to the proud, dashing poppy; 
or that the common little saxifrage, flowering 
humbly in rocky clefts, could claim the closest 
connections with the great showy hydrangea, 
standing so regally in our gardens. Plainly it 
is with flower people as it is with human folks; 
the humblest family has some one individual 
who seems to make up in grace and charm for 
all that the others lack. 

Such an odd flower is the columbine, and so 
richly colored! Perhaps you may have gath- 
ered it in the woods, as I did long years ago, 
wrongly naming it the wild honey suckle. How 
sweet is the nectar in the long tube-shaped honey- 
cells! Dainty little horns-of -plenty they are! 
And queerer than all else these tube-shapes are 
really petals, drawn out at the end to fashion 

104 



LADY COLUMBINE 

the little horns. The sepals are five in number, 
and if you don't watch yourself you will be 
mistaking them for petals, too, so like are they 
in shape to what we usually find doing duty in 
that line. A host of stamens stick out in a dainty 
golden tassel, but there are only five pistils, you 
can count them easily. 

"Dancing in red and yellow petticoats, to the 
rhythm of the breeze, along the ledge of some 
overhanging rock," says Blanchan, "the colum- 
bine coquettes with some Punchinello as if dar- 
ing him to reach her at his peril." 

For whom are the delicious honey-horns of 
the columbine filled? No short-tongued insects 
can reach them that is certain. But stay! Look 
yonder: there's a bee drilling a hole into the tip 
of a horn. Little robber, if he can't have the 
honey by fair means he will have it by foul! 
Ordinarily, however, small bees content them- 
selves with a feast of columbine pollen and pass 
on. Here comes a great big drummer. Can he 
manage to enter these blossoms, hanging down- 
ward as they do? Certainly, he is a master hand 
at standing on his head, as we have seen, and 
in truth the trick "has no more terrors for him," 
according to Blanchan, "than a trapeze has for 
the trained acrobat." 

105 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

Butterflies and moths come sailing along, and 
pause, attracted by the gay red and yellow ad- 
vertising cards. But they have no acrobatic 
proclivities, and moreover, their tongues are not 
fitted to probe into these deep funnel-shaped 
narrowing pantries. So they flit away else- 
where; the bumblebee, too, passes on, after a 
few plunges, and the bulk of the honey-sweet 
pantries have not been touched. 

We feel sure the columbine must have spread 
her feast for other lovers, and we can make a 
pretty strong guess who. For we know a dainty 
feathered guest who is fond of sipping at deep 
red and yellow cups, and it matters not much to 
him which side up they hang. And sure enough ! 
"Speaking of angels," you know 7 — here's the 
ruby-throat now! Nor is he anywise uncertain 
how to proceed : into the first luscious red horn- 
of-plenty he dips with vigor, then out and into 
the next one, and so on until each of the five 
flower spurs have been emptied ; then he attends 
with business-like directness to the other cornu- 
copias in the clump, and later to such other 
plants in the colony as it takes to satisfy his 
sweet-tooth; when he is off and away as sud- 
denly as he came, all unconscious of the pollen 
he has so plentifully scattered. But we feel 

106 



LADY COLUMBINE 

quite like offering him a rising vote of thanks. 
Well we know that we can pass this way next 
season and find an even larger bed of colum- 
bines than are here to-day. 

In Europe, where there are no humming- 
birds, the columbine wears a blue dress, and her 
honey spurs are shorter, stouter, and more 
curved. For she must depend upon the large 
bumblebees to set her seed, so she dresses in 
their favorite color, and builds her pantries for 
their convenience. None of the columbines 
have any arrangement for self-fertilization. The 
seed-vessel is an odd little pod with openings up 
and down its sides. 

Occasionally the columbine is white, so that 
its name which comes from a word meaning two 
doves is not so inappropriate as it would seem. 

"O Columbine, open your folded wrapper 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell." 



107 



THE HYACINTH 

Of course you know the hyacinth : you have 
seen its beautiful shades of blue, pink or white 
spikes of bloom in the florist's window many 
times, even if you have never planted the onion- 
like bulbs in pots of your own, or grown them 
in your garden. Coming with the crocus and 
narcissus, before the snow is quite gone, nothing 
is sweeter or more lovely than its dainty bells 
of spicy fragrance. And no flower is easier to 
grow. Once the bulbs are planted they go on 
increasing from year to year without danger of 
overcrowding, and no excuse whatever is needed 
for them to slip through the fence and away, 
running wild. 

The hyacinth belongs to the lily family, and 
is a very great favorite with people all over 
the world. Its native land is the Levant, which 
is the coast and islands of the Eastern Mediter- 
ranean, more particularly Syria and Asia 
Minor. In this far away land, you know, the 
favorite style of dress is the tunic, which is in 

108 



THE HYACINTH 

short a loose flowing gown or wrapper. And 
the hyacinth, used always to this style of dress, 
adopted the fashion to such an extent that botan- 
ists say that it has a "tunicated" bulb — meaning 
that the bulb is wrapped about by various gar- 
ments, which are in truth merely coats of scales. 
If we examine the hyacinth bulb carefully, 
w r e note that its "tunic" is made up of leaf scales, 
which, instead of going on and forming leaves, 
remained scales set aside by Nature for a special 
purpose. Indeed, botanists tell us that some of 
the scales on a full-grown bulb are really the 
fleshy end of the leaf-stalks, little store-houses, 
if you please, of starch and other plant materi- 
als. So, you see, that a tunic is a very conven- 
ient garment; not only does it wrap up the plant, 
but it feeds it also ! It stands as the sole supply 
of nourishment until the roots and green leaves 
form and get about their life business of form- 
ing more food from the earth and soil-water, 
the sun and air; then what is left of the tunic, 
after giving rise to the two "tunicated" bulbs 
which are to form the plant's next generation 
of hyacinths, decays and still helps by enriching 
and loosening the soil about the roots of the now 
independent plant. Many plants, we find, favor 
the tunic, among them being the tulip and a 

109 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

certain common garden vegetable which often 
fills our eyes with tears on beholding it. 

If we go a little further into our analysis of 
the hyacinth bulb, dissecting it piece by piece 
under a powerful lens, we find that its fleshy 
scales are folded together very much as the 
scales are folded about a tree bud. It reminds 
us of the surprise package that has come by 
mail, and we go on unwrapping tunic after 
tunic, until lo! in the very center of the bulb, 
we find the precious gift — a tiny flower-cluster 
wrapped about by half a dozen delicate leaves. 
These are white and fragile and Very, very 
small, but what a wealth of promise is theirs! 
Something else there is here, too, that w T e look 
at with delight. On either side of the tiny plant 
stem are the bulb buds which we have already 
mentioned, — the guarantee that where one hya- 
cinth bloomed this year two will stand next sea- 
son, if all goes well. 

If you have ever planted hyacinth bulbs, you 
know just how the plant shoots up, under the 
warm kiss of the sun, and how soon after the 
first sprig of green appears the hyacinth bells 
are ready to ring. It seems almost as though 
some fairy magic had been at work. And, in- 
deed, we are justified in suspecting this, when 

110 



THE HYACINTH 

we learn the old, old tale concerning the origin 
of the hyacinth : 

In a certain neighborhood long, long ago, 
were two boys, Apollo and Hyacinthus, who 
were the best of chums. Day after day they 
were together, mixing in all manner of out-door 
sports, and never were the hours long enough to 
enjoy even the half that they had planned. 
Fishing trips and pleasant excursions up the 
sides of the mountain often occupied them for 
days, and such delightful times as they had! 
But, best of all, perhaps, were the games they 
had in a delightful old garden near their home. 
Both were exceedingly skillful in playing quoits, 
and on a certain day they set out to try for the 
mastery. How it happened no one could after 
relate, but just as Apollo threw the discus, Hya- 
cinthus eager for his turn ran to get it, and in 
some manner the quoit struck the ground and re- 
bounded, striking him full on the forehead. In- 
stantly the youth, so gay and eager but a moment 
before, fell to the earth, as a dying flower droops 
upon its stem. 

Now the lad Apollo, as you have perhaps al- 
ready guessed from his name, was none other 
than the great god Apollo, the Lord of the 
Silver Bow and the Bringer of Light, who was 

111 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

but sojourning on earth, in one of the pleasant 
guises which he so loved. On seeing the fate 
of his young friend and playmate, the lad who 
had given him so many joyous, happy hours, 
he ran to him greatly concerned : "Oh, my be- 
loved Hyacinthus," he cried sorrowfully, "you 
die robbed of your youth by me. Yours is the 
suffering, but mine the crime. Would that I 
could die for you! But since that may not be, 
you shall always live in my memory and my 
song. I shall always sing with regretful sorrow. 
And you, my beloved, you shall become a beau- 
tiful flower!" 

And so it was. 

Next spring, on the spot where the young 
lad's life had ebbed, there sprang up a beautiful 
blue flower, bearing the scepter of kings. 

"'Tis Hyacinthus, the king's son," cried the 
common folks delightedly, and so to this day 
the flower comes up from the ground each re- 
turning spring to remind us of the youth's sad 
fate. 



112 



DAISIES AT HOME AND ABROAD 

All the world loves a field of daisies, except- 
ing the farmer on whose land they are trespass- 
ing! There is charm and fortune in them; ask 
the happy child, who in vacation days sits deep 
in the daisy field the long hours through, mak- 
ing chains and white-capped old women galore, 
and listening delightedly to bobolink's mad 
music; or again ask the maidens who have 
times untold tested their fate by the old, old 
process, "He loves me, he loves me not!" 

"When daisies pied, and violets blue, 
And lady-smocks all silver white, 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, 
Do paint the meadows with delight. " 

So sang Shakespeare, while Burns set all the 
world aglow by his lines to a 

"Wee, modest, crimson-tippit flower." 

Both of these great poets, however, saw an 
English spring scene and an English flower. 
Their daisy is quite different from ours — "A 
little pink and white blossom," says Blanchan, 

113 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

"that hugs the English turf as if it loved it — the 
true day's-eye, for it closes at nightfall and 
opens with the dawn." 

The daisy belongs to the thistle family, and 
there are several members in the clan, among 
those most familiar being the common white 
daisy, and the yellow ox-eye or black-eyed 
Susan, which is such a favorite with artists and 
city folks who seldom know the pleasures of 
the country roadside. The common little dog- 
fennel, a miserable pest in backyards and gar- 
dens, is styled by botanists — the pig-sty daisy. 
And in this case there is something in the name, 
for as everybody knows this is the very spot the 
little nuisance likes best! 

Type of one of the great plant divisions is the 
daisy, and that is the reason we have introduced 
it here. Let us examine a specimen under the 
lens. A black-eyed Susan will do admirably. 
First we must note that the narrow orange-yel- 
low "petals" which make such a beautiful bor- 
der around the brown center, are really not 
petals at all. Each one is a "female floret" 
whose open corolla has grown large and showy 
for advertising purposes. "Look!" they cry to 
all passers, "nectar here! Stop and taste!" 

And sure enough! For as we rapidly pick 

114 



DAISIES AT HOME AND ABROAD 

the specimen in pieces, to our surprise, we find 
that these yellow florets are merely a beginning. 
The whole brown center is made up of tube- 
shaped blossoms, "huddled together in a green 
cup as closely as they can be packed." Within 
each of these tiny brown tubes is a close ring 
of stamens, standing guard around the little pis- 
til where the seed is to be set. As the pistil rises 
through their midst, its little brush-like tip 
sweeps the pollen from the swollen knob-like 
ends, or anthers, which crown the stamens, and 
carries it up where the first visiting insect must 
remove it. 

Bees, wasps, beetles, butterflies, and more than 
all the flies, cannot keep away from such a 
provident hostess, and shortly the table is cleared 
slick and clean. Then the two arms of the wise 
little pistil, which have kept tightly closed for 
fear of self-fertilization, open out, and a new 
dish is offered : the honey in the nectaries. More- 
over, the little pistil-arms mucilage themselves, 
so that every bit of pollen from another flower 
may safely stick to them. Then the guest with 
the long tongue is anxiously awaited, and usu- 
ally he is not long in coming. For, as one writer 
naively puts it, all insects look upon the daisy 
as a sort of "department store," where every 

115 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

want may be supplied. As a result, immense 
quantities of cross-fertilized seed is set in every 
patch, — "Small wonder that our fields are white 
with daisies— a long and a merry life to them!" 

But to return again to the make-up of the 
daisy, each one of these little brown tubes is in 
truth a tiny floret, or a flower by itself, if you 
please. Therefore the whole bloom may be said 
to be a compound, or union of many flower- 
heads crowded together. Botanists put this in 
one term : they call it a composite flower. And 
so many plants are there which bloom in a com- 
posite fashion that they have been grouped un- 
der one great division called the Gompositas. 
The asters, sunflowers, and dandelions are fa- 
miliar specimens of this large class. Can you 
name others? 

How often have we heard some one exclaim: 
"You're a daisy!" But do you know that this 
is really not so much a slang phrase as it would 
seem? In the eastern counties of old England 
"daisy" used formerly to be considered as an 
adjective meaning excellent — as for instance 1 , 
"She's a daisy lass to work," meaning, "She's a 
good girl to work." So the American young- 
ster's "You're a daisy!" is simply provincial old 
English. 

116 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE 
DANDELION 

Up in his soft cloud-hammock far in the 
southern sky, the South Wind lay rocking slow- 
ly to and fro. 

"I ought to be away to the Northland," he 
murmured lazily to himself, "but it is so sweet 
and comfortable here I dread to set out." 

So he tarried, swinging idly, until presently 
the Zephyrs came by: "What, South Wind, 
are you still here?" they asked, in surprise. "We 
thought you gone these many days! It is get- 
ting very lovely in the North, they say. The 
grass is growing green, and the sky is of the 
deepest blue." 

"I know," said the South Wind, in his laziest 
don't-care drawl, "they seem to be doing very 
well without me. I'll be along one of these 
days." 

And forthwith he dismissed the matter and 
dropped off to sleep. 

Nor did the South Wind think of duty and 
the Northland again until the following morn- 

117 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

ing: "I surely ought to be off," he told himself 
again, then, and rising, he stood up on tip-toe 
and looked away and away to the northward. 
"Ha!" he cried admiringly, "they certainly are 
coming on ! But what are those yellow flowers 
starring the green grass? I do not remember of 
ever seeing their like before. How bright and 
beautiful they are! Like the sun in all his 
spring glory! I'll be off this very afternoon and 
pick the whole host of 'em!" 

So saying he laid down again in his soft cloud- 
hammock, and stretching himself lazily, stared 
contentedly off into the deep blue of the heav- 
ens. "How delicious it is here!" he murmured 
presently, and then fell a-nidnodding. By and 
by he was sound asleep, and of course he did not 
go to the Northland in the afternoon. Who- 
ever heard of starting on a long journey at that 
late hour? It would be much better to wait 
until morning! 

Nor did he go then, either; for, as you 
have guessed, the South Wind was very lazy. 
And, though he would have been shocked had 
any one mentioned it, his favorite motto was, 
in truth, "Never do to-day what you can put 
off till to-morrow!" So he tarried, dillydally- 
ing day after day, telling himself now, and yet 

118 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE DANDELION 

again, "Surely I must be after those beau- 
tiful yellow blossoms! They are marvelously 
lovely." 

Here and there the earth people questioned 
one another, saying: "From whence came these 
beautiful blossoms? What are they called?" 

No one knew. But their lack of knowledge 
was not serious. Names were easily coined in 
those days. 

"Look at the dented edges of the leaves," sug- 
gested one who was examining the plant for its 
key-note. "Just like a lion's tooth! Stay! There 
you have it: just the very name — dent de lion/' 

And dent-de-lion it became forthwith! 

Presently this was improved upon by the chil- 
dren who loved the "dandy, spandy little 
flower"; they called it the dandelion. Other 
names which came later were blowball, peas- 
ant's clock, and lion's-tooth. But none of these 
seem to fit so nicely as dandelion ! 

Meantime, now, the South Wind came on 
perforce, eager to pick the bright "harmless 
gold." But lo! it had vanished. Not a yellow 
flower remained in all the fields of the North. 
In the places where he had beheld them were 
straight little stalks with airy, fairy, snow-white 
heads. What could have haooened? Alas! it 

119 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

was a problem all too deep for the South Wind. 

"Perchance, my brother, the North Wind, 
has breathed his frost upon them?" he said spec- 
ulatively, and if he had known how, the South 
Wind would most certainly have frowned. Alas! 
the precious, wondrous golden flowers! "Well, 
well," he murmured plaintively, "That's how 
I'm paid for my slothfulness," and then, warned 
betimes, he hurried on, lest he lose out some- 
where else. 

As he vanished, the children came out to the 
meadow, "Oh, look," they cried, "the poor old 
dandies have gone to seed! See how their little 
tufted feathers are riding in the zephyr trains 
of the South Wind! Let's hope they do not all 
follow him!" 

They did not, of course; for next year, not 
only was the meadow well-filled with glorious 
dandelions, but they came up all along the road- 
sides, and in the yards and gardens. "Pestifer- 
ous weeds !" said those who had to contend with 
them, but the children greeted them as jolly old 
friends and laughingly spun their dandelion 
curls and blew the time of day. 

"It is strange where they all went to, and how 
they came again with such reinforcements," said 
the South Wind, looking upon them from his 

120 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE DANDELION 

cloud-hammock. "How beautiful they are! I 
vow that this time they shall not escape me! A 
good armful I shall gather to carry away North- 
ward." 

And, for once, the South Wind was true tq 
his word! 

With his help, to-day the dandelion has man- 
aged to land its peaceful legions in every part 
of the civilized world and to take possession of 
the soil. "Never say die!" is its motto, and so 
strong and thrifty is its seed that "after soaking 
in the briny ocean for twenty-eight days — long 
enough for a current to carry them a thousand 
miles along the coast — they are still able to 
germinate." 

Hosts of bees, wasps, beetles and butterflies 
feed at its always well-spread pollen tables, and 
thirsty tongues sip at its nectar wells. Like the 
daisy and other members of its Composite fam- 
ily, the dandelion runs "a department store," 
and somehow manages by "consumate executive 
ability to make every visitor unwittingly con- 
tribute to its success." Nor does it put its trust 
altogether in outsiders ; if by accident any floret 
is left unattended, arrangements are made for 
self-fertilization. Not a chance does the dande- 
lion lose: "Keep pushing," is its watchword, 

121 



A TREASURY OF FLOWER STORIES 

early and late. The lawn mower may clip it 
again and again; you may even painstakingly 
dig it up with a knife; but lo! when your back 
is turned, a few leaves are thrown out from some 
over-looked root and a little yellow-crowned 
blossom nestles low in the grass and shortly there 
stands triumphant a whole host of tiny para- 
chutes ready to set sail on the first passing 
breeze! 



122 



